
Class I 

Book ___ __^v2 
Copyright N°_ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A Rose of the Old Regime 
and other Poems 



75 3* 2r 



J 



1fl1 



LIBRARY of CO^aRESSj 
! Two Copies Rtcetvea 
DEC 19 190? 

Copyngst fcniry 

CLASS XT XXc.No, 
\ COPY B. 



Copyright 1907 

BY FOLGER MCKlNSEY 

Published November 1907 
All Rights Reserved. 



Second Edition 
Printed December, 1907 



s 



From heart to heart, go, little song! 
Perhaps someone amid the throng 
Will wake responsive to your lay 
And dream a brighter dream today. 



AUTHOR'S NOTE. 



This volume is a selection from poems written for an 
editorial-page department of the Baltimore Sun, to whose 
publishers, the A. S. Abell Company, I am indebted for 
permission to use them. 

The book is issued in response to a genuine demand 
from hundreds of readers of the poems for their preserva- 
tion in permanent and convenient form. That this de- 
mand should arise, or that the poems should have won 
such wide and kindly recognition as they have in all parts 
of the country, was as great a revelation to me as anything 
possibly could be. Songs of homely sentiment, they have 
been written out of a simple life of care and struggle — 
and I now see that it is due, perhaps, to the universal 
appeal in this, to a certain homespun individuality, and 
to their obvious candor and sincerity, that they have 
found their way to the hearts of the people. 

I have thought it well to write only of my own place 
and people, of the things I knew ; and I have thus en- 
deavored in some measure to fulfill a long-cherished 
ambition to give articulate expression in verse to the 
beauty and charm of my native State and revitalize in 
song the spirit of her romance and chivalry. 

As to the "Bentztown Bard," much will be forgiven 
my insistence upon the use of this admittedly ludicrous 
pen-name when I explain that Bentztown is a real place, 
with very real and very tender associations. It was in 
that historic section of Frederick City that I lived when 



I began some years ago the publication of verses over 
that signature, and it has, of course, seemed wise to re- 
tain in this book the name with which the work has been 
made most widely familiar to the public — 



There is the hill and the highway that wends 
Where over the mountain the blue heaven bends ; 
There is the creek winding on to the sea 
Through heart of the city and bloom of the lea ; 
There is the bridge and the house by the spring, 
And love in the door with a child in its wing ! 

There is the town in the heart of the town, 
And the valleys that smile and the mountains that frown, 
And the shadows that come from a home that I knew, 
When the heart was a bloom and the dream was a dew, 
And round me wherever I went something smiled 
Iyike the joy of a song on the lips of a child ! 



Much encouragement has come to me in my work from 
the hearty and sustained response of my readers, and I 
owe them a great debt. I have tried to make the volume 
in some measure representative of varied theme and treat- 
ment, at the same time considering and respecting the 
wishes of those who have asked for certain "favorites." 

One thing I wish to say of the work itself : it has 
taught me — with all its artistic and literary limitations — 
that there is a widespread and increased reading of verse 
upon the part of the American people, when in theme and 
treatment it gives articulation to their own feelings and 
daily experiences. Even amid the roaring looms of trade 
men of affairs and of business frequently pause to read 
the song that "hits" the heart or the lyric that carries 
them into the fresh air and green fields or back to child- 
hood days and the April morn of life. Hundreds, old 



and young, have brought me emphatic testimony of this, 
and I am grateful for it : 

All that I know is the song that I sing 
Of the bloom on the bough and the bird on the wing ; 
All that I feel is the life that goes by 
In the breath of the wind and the blue of the sky ; 
All that I get is the gift of life's dreaming, 
The simple, sweet mem'ry of youth's after-gleaming. 
All that I am, that I wish, that I care for, 
All that I lift to the clouds my brief prayer for, 
Is strength for the struggle, and grace for the trust, 
And sight for the beauty that sleeps in the dust ; 
That, out of it winging, some note borne to me 
May sound in my song like a message set free 
From the heart and the hope and the dream of the way 
Where I go with my heart on my sleeve all the day. 



Baltimore, Md. November, 1907. F. McK. 



CONTENTS. 



A ROSE OF THE OLD REGIME. 

Reminiscence and Character. 

Stick Candy Days - - - - 23 

Summer - 24 

The Country Doctor - - - - 25 

The Bell Team ... 27 

Just Diving - - - - - 28 

The Davender Dady - 29 

The Country Band - - - -31 

A Fine Old Chap 34 

Dight and the Battle - - - - 35 

Pitching Quoits __.__• 36 

Not Much Account - - - - 38 

Plain Seeing - - 39 

Gingerbread Man - - - - 40 

Doctor Arty ----- 42 

The Dear Old Village Street - - - 44 

A Phantom of the Pike ... 46 

The Bowlegged Man - - - - 48 

The Cheeriby Chums 50 

The Village Volunteers - - - 52 

Home-Dove and Childhood. 

The Invisible Playmate - - - 55 

The Dishpan Band - - - - 57 

A Dittle Child Daughed . - - 58 



HOMEXLOVE AND CHILDHOOD. 

Doctor Mother - - - - - 59 

Child's Prayer at Morn 60 

Second Boyhood - - - - 61 

The Holdup - ... 63 

Let Him Laugh - - - - 64 

The Hand of a Mother . - - 65 

Prayer - - - - - - 66 

Chatterbox ----- 67 

The Little Lame Lad at the Window . - 69 

Each in His World - - - - 71 

Christmas in the Valleys - - - 72 

When Love Comes Home - - - 73 

Cruise of the Fender Ship - - - 74 

The Battlefield - - - - 76 

The Building of the House - - - 78 

A Little Knock - - - - 80 

The Noise in the Room - - - 81 

The Song of the Sword ... 82 

A Little Hand - - - - - 84 

The Spirit of Dream - 86 

The Rainbarrel Sea - - 87 

Laugh it Away -_ - - - 88 

Back There - - - - - 89 

Little Lady Make Believe 91 

The Bachelor's Christmas - - - 93 

The Dreamy Song 95 

The Return of the Magdalene - - 97 

Beside the Fire - 98 

The Lost Mariners - - - - 99 

When the Whippoorwill Sings in the Willow 100 

The Butterfly - - - - - 101 

General Joy - - - - 102 

The Old Home Place ... 104 



HOME-IvOVE AND CHILDHOOD. 

Grandmother's Chair - - - 106 

The Unseen Battles - - - - 108 

The Beautiful Blue China Sea - - HO 

The Lost Brigades ....... 112 

The Years ----- 114 



Maryland. 

The Ark and Dove - - - - 117 

Onward ----- 119 

The Old Senate Chamber - - - 120 

The Call of the Bugles - - - 122 

The Men of Old Kent - - - - 123 

The Glades of Garrett - - - 125 

Sunset on the Severn - - - - 127 

The Shadows of Catoctin - - - 129 

Chester River - - - - - 131 

Dreamer and Doer 133 

Catoctin Valleys - - - ^ - 134 

A Goodly Friend 136 

Light Street - - - - - 137 

The Old Sawmill ... 139 

Charles Street's Spring Debut - - 141 

Round Bay ----- 143 

Magothy Meadows - - - - 145 

Cathedral Street 147 

The Drum Point Light - - - 149 

Chesapeake City 151 

The Oyster Fleet - - - - 153 

The Bells of Old St. John's - - 155 

Kndymion in Greenmount - - - 157 

In Westminster Churchyard - - 159 



Country L,ife. 

Pan in the Pasture - - - - 163 

Dream Fishing - 165 

The Autumn Fields - - - - 167 

Lofting Hay 169 

Saving Fodder - - - - - 171 

Greenwood Street 172 



The Navy. 

Evening Colors - - - - 175 

"Taps" at Annapolis - - - 177 

The Goodnight Gun - - - - 179 



A Rose of The Old Regime. 



A Rose of the Oi/d Regime;. 

/ saw her last flight in a portrait, a rose of the old 

regime, 
Who grew in the quiet gardens that sloped to the Severn 

stream . 
She had danced with the early Gov'nors, and danced on the 

hearts that sleep 
Where the shadows of St. Ann's wander and the leaves of 

the myrtle creep — 
A dame of the dear old revels, when out of the golden 

mom 
The hunters came at the echo and the hounds at the call of 

the horn / 

/ saw her last night in an album, with cheeks of the cherries 
ripe, 

As she smiled from the eerie shadows of an old daguerreo- 
type; 

I fancy her bright eyes twinkled, I'm sure that her shoulders 
fair 

Shrugged once or twice, and a ripple of sunshine wavered 
her hair; 

And once I thought as I watched her, she stepped from her 
frame in a dream 

To dance in the gentle dances of the days of the old regime. 

Then, out of her frame there followed, hi shadows and shapes 

of song, 
A bevy of bright young beauties, a gay and a gallant throng. 

17 



18 A ROSE OF THE OLD REGIME. 

They trooped through the antique mansions of Stewart a?id 

Paca and Chase, 
The halls of the stately Carrolls, a?id off throtigh the market 

place, 
And ozct to the hills and meadows, and down to the Severn 

side, 
Then back again to the album where the dear dead portraits 

hide. 

I saw her last night in her marvel of beauty and girlish 

bloom, 
This rose who is dust where the roses swing sweet o ' er her 

little tomb. 
I thought that her lips were singing, and somehow a 

nameless bliss 
Thrilled mine as I lifted her lips in the frame tinto my own 

to kiss; 
And somehow I felt her dancing in the dance of a deathless 

dream, 
As she danced on the hearts of her lovers — a rose of the old 

regime! 

Blow, bugles of morn, o'er the Severn/ the hunters are off 

to the call; 
They will dance tonight in the revel of love at the Gov'nor's 

ball, 
And the glasses will gleam on the lowboy, the starlight will 

gleam in the eyes 
Of maidens whose cheeks are like roses of velvet in April 

skies ; 
And some day under the shadow of old St. Ann' s they will 

rest, 
When da?icers and dreamers are ashes and roses bloom over 

the breast! 



A ROSE OF THE OLD REGIME. 19 

/ saw her last night in an album, a rose of the old 

regime, 
Who grew in the quiet gardens that sloped to the Severn 

stream: 
Wherever I go in my dreaming, wherever I Jo How the 

throng, 
She floats like a gleam in the shadows, she sings like an echo 

of song. 
Oh, would I had been of the lovers who sleep in the shadows 

apart, 
And had known the sweet joy of her dancing, though she 

danced on the britn of my heart! 



Reminiscence and Character. 



Stick-Candy Days. 

I want to go back to the stick-candy days, 
Before they made bonbons of choc'late and glaze ; 
I want, to go back to the dear little shop 
Where the little old lady sold ginger-beer pop, 
A.nd made little cookies with raisins, that went 
Like lightning because they were two for a cent ! 

I know the green street where the little shop stood, 

And, oh, the stick-candy, that tasted so good ! 

Lemon and wintergreen, cinnamon bar, 

Each in its round little, fat little jar — 

I see through the glamor of childhood the glint 

Of the sassafras, horehound and white peppermint ! 

There was Everton taffy around Christmas time, 

With its delicate essence of nutmeggy rime ; 

And sourballs and doughnuts and huge candy toys 

For that life of the child that was builded of joys ! 

Ah, dear little shop on the green little street, 

I want to go back to those days that were sweet ! 

A bell that went jingle hung over the door, 

So they knew when a customer entered the store, 

And sometimes the little old lady came in 

With her hands full of dough from the breadmaking 

tin, 
But ever her heart and her gentle face smiled 
On the timid young spirit of dear little child ! 

23 



24 STICK CANDY-DAYS. 



In flytime the window was covered with net 

And under wire baskets the cake plates were set ; 

Sometimes to add glory to life's fleeting gleam, 

She sold little plates of vanilla ice-cream, 

While schooldays brought forth on her counter, ah me, 

Those cucumber pickles of childhood's young glee ! 



I know there are shadows about the old place, 

And mossy tombs lean with dear names we may trace 

Of loved ones gone down in the dust of the years, 

But, oh, for the thought again, even in tears, 

Of the green little street and the shop and the bell 

With a phantom of jingle that sounds like a knell ! 



Summer. 

A hickory pole and a crooked pin, 
A stream that ripples with silvery din, 
A poplar leaning above the stream, 
A tousled head in a world of dream ; 
A drowsy hum in the fields of clover, 
A beautiful blue sky bending over 
Velvet valley and mist- veiled hill — 
And life all green, and sweet, and still 



The Country Doctor. 

Here comes the doctor and here comes his shay 
Down the sweet shadows of old country day! 
Here comes the doctor you knew when a child, 
The old country doctor, who chatted and smiled, 
Who wore a red rose in his coat and drew near 
With soft words of comfort and whispers of cheer ! 
Not much for college and not much for books, 
But, ah, the sweet healing that dwelt in his looks ! 



Here comes the doctor! I hear his old nag 
Come jogging along, the delight of each wag, 
But true, like her owner, and steady and sure, 
And patient, like him, with the faith to endure ! 
Down the old roadway of dust and of dream, 
Ah, what a comfort to hear the old team, 
And see him walk up the old pathway of bloom 
To carry the sunshine of cheer in the room ! 



He's going all night and he's going all day, 

The old country doctor who won't stop to play ; 

He's attended the families, from grandfather down, 

So long that he's really a part of the town ; 

At birth and at burying, gentle and just, 

Through storm of the winter, through dew and 

through dust, 
In all kinds of weather, at all sorts of hours, 
He comes like a breath of the healing of flowers ! 



26 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. 

The old country doctor ! My hat's off to him 
As I see through the shadows of time growing dim 
The face of his comfort smile down on my own 
When I wanted to laugh, and I tried not to groan, 
In the days when he came to put measles to flight, 
Or still the old tootheache in dead of the night, 
Or bandage the mumps, and fill all the old place 
With the nameless, ineffable charm of his grace ! 



Ah, tender old doctor — heart's love unto you 

As you ride down the road when the violets are blue, 

Or when the bells jingle across the hard snow — 

Heart's love unto you howsoever j^ou go ! 

For none is more faithful, more conscious, more 

wise, 
With such laugh in the voice and such gleam in 

the eyes, 
Such magic to touch the heart's fountain of tears, 
Old friend of the neighborhood through the long years! 



Here comes the old doctor down lanes of the past, 
With the halo of mem'ry that time 'round him cast— 
The gentle old doctor of sweet country day 
With the joggety horse and the rattlety shay, 
And his hand to old neighbors in hail and haddo, 
In storms of the winter, in violet-time blue, 
The old country doctor who came in the room 
With the fragrance of healing like breath from a bloom ! 



The Bell Team. 

, s 

Here comes the bell team over the hill, 
Six bells,* jir%ie upon the thill, 
The gray horse leading, as down the road 
The wagon rolls with its harvest load ; 
Over the mountain and through the dells, 
To silvery music of swinging bells — ■ 
Out of the valleys of garnered wheat, 
Here conies the bell team jingling sweet ! 



Here comes the bell team rumbling down 
Over the pike into Hagerstown ; 
One on the brakeboard cracking his whip, 
With a merry tune on his rose-red lip; 
Straw hat flapping with every breeze 
And catbirds jeering him under the trees, 
As down the valleys of song and dream 
He drives into market the old bell team ! 



An engine shrieks and a trolley whirrs 
Along the road where the shadow stirs. 
The phantom driver is filled with awe ; 
The lead horse, nervous, begins to paw 
With lifted forefoot, his startled gaze 
Watching the dust and the smoke and blaze 
These modern rivals of force and steam 
Have left in the trail of the old bell team ! 



THE BELL TEAM. 

Ah, time is marching and customs change, 
But would again that the old hill range 
And the long white road into Hagerstown 
Were filled with the bell teams rumbling down, 
And the drivers sat with their merry tune 
a Whistling do-^rn through the autumn noon, 
With whips a-craok o'er the leader's head 
In the dear old days where 'chc Tancies tread ! 



Oh, how sweet to the listening ear 

The silvery cadences, tinkling clear, 

Of bells that swing to the leader's pace 

Over the pike to the market place ! 

Here comes the team with its tura-loo, 

Over the hills of the morning dew, 

Out of the valleys of golden wheat 

To the tavern yard in the stone-paved street ! 



Just Living. 

Tender and pleasant and gentle, 
Gracious and hopeful and gay, 

That's the way to be passing 

The moments that make up the day. 

For it's, oh, so good to be happy, 
Kindly and sweet and forgiving ! 

Such a beautiful thing to be cheery, 
And such good fun to be living ! 



The Lavender L,ady. 

The little lavender lady, she walks in the city park, 

A rosebud raying her snowy hair that once on a time 

was dark. 
Velasquez painted her portrait to hang on a gallery wall — 
She has stepped from the frame for a stroll around, little 

side-curls and all. 

The little lavender lady, she dwells in Cathedral street ; 
Those little grey mice 'neath her crinoline skirt are her 

little silk-slippered feet. 
I bow in a courtly fashion, watching her all the while 
That I may not miss for the world and all the gift of her 

gracious smile. 

The little lavender lady — or was it a shadow gray 

That came between where the path winds green out of an 

elder day ? 
She trips with a grace that is vanished, that they shall 

not soon forget 
Who took the hand of a dame to dance in the stately 

minuet. 

The little lavender lady, who would be young as a girl, 
A border of bloom in her bonnet, a heliotrope in her curl — 
She steps as lithe as her daughters, and seems to feel as 

young, 
As she glides along like the melody of a ballad Gerster 

sung. 



30 THE LAVENDER LADY. 

The little lavender lady — I half believe 'tis a dream ! 
But there she goes on her tippy toes, a gray and a gentle 

gleam. 
She gathers her youth about her when she gathers her 

little shawl 
'Round shoulders sweet where the laces meet and the 

dancing side-curls fall. 



The little lavender lady, she walks in the city square ; 
She passes by so lithe and spry, with a rosebud in her 

hair — 
I bow to the gentle vision, ere phantom voices call, 
And she nutters back to her velvet frame in its place on 

the gallery wall. 



The little lavender lady — she goes with a silver stick, 
Along the square with a merry air to the sound of her 

heels that click. 
And after her go the visions — oh, all around they soar — 
Of the old sweet da} r s and the old sweet ways in the sweet 

old Baltimore ! 



The; Country Band. 

Fling- out the flags upon the breeze the Nation's natal day, 

And bring the old-time band around, I'd like to hear it 

play ! 
I'd give most half my life to see that old trombonist blow 
And watch the ample Teuton there boomp on the fat basso, 
The little tenpin gentleman beat on the kettle drum 

And make the sticks like raindrops fall with rattle and 

with thrum, 
While with their yellow uniforms shot through with rays 

of red 
They make the eagle leave his nest and stand upon his 

head. 



Oh, bring the little country band around to me at morn ; 

I want to hear "Red, White, and Blue" upon the tenor 

horn; 
I'd love to march around with them and in the big parade 

Draw up before the grand review where speech and song 

were made : 
I'd love to hear a roaring voice, as in those olden years, 

Reach up into the starry void and wake the rolling 
spheres, 

While far the bird-o' -freedom swept the whole assemblage 

round 
Until to "Hail Columbia's" note the welkin rang with 

sound. 



32 THE COUNTRY BAND. 

All hail the little country band we used to wager by, 
When all the little town turned out upon the Fourth July ; 
No mighty hosts of empire moved more pompously than 

they 
When freedom from her mountain heights awoke the 

glorious day, 
And round the speakers' stand we drew with open mouths 

to hear 
The fervid patriotic flood the orator would steer 
From Kosciusko's honored tomb unto Mount Vernon's 

shade, 
While, oh, the peanuts were so good, with cake and 

lemonade. 

Boomp, boomp, it comes from other days down shaded 

streets to me, 
With red and yellow buskins on and pompoms tossing 

free ; 
With earnestness and fervent zeal the old time tunes it 

plays, 
As on the anniversaries of those old, golden days ; 
"Star-Spangled Banner," "Tried and True," "Old 

Hundred' ' and the rest— 
Ah, how the glory of the day would swell each manly 

breast, 
And how the old flag waved and tossed upon the summer 

breeze, 
As men talked crops and politics beneath the whispering 

trees ! 

It comes again, the grand old day — oh, let the banner 

wave ! 
The country band will bleed and die its sacred folds to 

save. 



THE COUNTRY BAND. 33 

The little yellow country band — stand back and let it pass ! 
The path it comes from down the years is carpeted with 

grass, 
But memory holds it fresh and true, no moss shall hide 

its name ; 
The trombone and the kettle drum, all, all belong to fame ! 
And though sometimes their notes were flat, their 

patriotic zeal 
Awoke each freedom lover's heart and made the eagle 

squeal. 



Hats off, old friend, today to you ! You rang the brazen 

note 
Upon whose tide on Fourth July our ringing cheers would 

float! 
Bowed while the pompous orator the "Declaration" read, 
And while the "speaker of the day" made yonder eagle 

spread, 
Your turn would come to lead the line when all the rest 

was o'er 
Around the courthouse and the "hall" unto the 

greenwood door ; 
And then the picnic cream was served, the gingercake 

displayed, 
And, oh, the patriot souls that thronged around the 

lemonade ! 



A Fink Old Chap. 

'He's a fine old chap," most everyone said, 
With a touch of the greyness of time on his head ; 
His heart was a boy's and his soul was a song, 
And his step was as lithe as a lad's and as strong ; 
There was red on his cheeks and a glow in his eye, 
And he loved to be out in the fields 'neath the sky. 

'He's a fine old chap !" The children drew 
To his side with a faith that was firm and true. 
He fished and swam and played and sang 
With a wholesome, healthy, childhood tang. 
There was grey in his hair, but his warm red heart 
Rang true to the youth of his pristine art. 

'He's a fine old chap ! " He was friend and knight 
To the lad who was caught in a boyhood plight. 
He was sportsman bred and he knew the lair 
Of the wilding game of the field and air. 
His lips could whistle the Bob White's call 
And the plover's plaint in the frost of fall. 

'He's a fine old chap ! " By the old and young 
The same sweet word of his grace was sung. 
When sad hearts yearned for a little gleam 
Of the sun and cheer, he came with his dream, 
With his smiling face and friendly way 
And his child heart ringing the rosy day. 

34 



A FINE OLD CHAP. 

'He's a fine old chap ! " Sometimes I thought 
His cheer with a manifest gloom was fraught, 
And I found him once by a fishing stream 
With a little locket that framed a beam 
Of girlhood beauty in form and grace, 
And, oh, such a tender and touching face ! 



'He's a fine old chap ! " But that day, dear, 
I knew that the dew on his cheek was a tear, 
And I came away without a word — 
Oh, he had not seen and he had not heard : 
The fine old chap with the heart of gleam 
Was alone that day with an old love-dream ! 



Ah, his lips are sweet with the boyhood glee, 
And he loves the fields and the stream and tree ! 
Yea, he pours his pity for those in need 
And tries to brighten the hearts that bleed, 
For his heart keeps young, and he can't grow old 
While that face goes locked in its frame of gold ! 



IylGHT, AND THE BATTLE ! 

Light, and the battle ! away to the call 

Of morn on the hills, and the bugles and all ! 

Light, and the battle ! up, heart, and away 

To the sweet of the toil and the swing of the fray ! 

Light, and the battle ! and afterward, rest— 

With her lips to your lips and your head on her breast! 



Pitching Quoits. 

Ever pitch quoits with a horseshoe over a hickory pin ? 

Ever capture a ringer and count up the score with a grin ? 

Ever pitch quoits in the country under the boughs of a 
tree, 

With lads of the old-time revel in lands of the used- 
to-be ? 

Ever pitch quoits with a horseshoe? Think of it! Wasn't 
it fun, 

In days of the dews of glory where shadows of child- 
hood run ! 

A fine old quoit is a horseshoe ! Hurrah for the hickory 

peg! 
L,ook out ! I'm the wildest thrower, and likely to hit 

your leg ! 
I swing the quoit with a gesture that threatens to win 

the game, 
And I'm going to throw a ringer as certain as wood makes 

flame ! 
Ever pitch quoits with a horseshoe out by the blacksmith 

shop, 
In the days that are dead forever, the dreams that can 

never stop ? 

Comrades there in the sweetness of life in its golden 
morn, 

Swinging with feet unwearied, singing with hearts un- 
worn ; 

36 



PITCHING QUOITS. 37 

Youth in the spirit of glory, life in the sweetness of 

spring, 
Fettled and fine for the frolic, the lure of the elfin wing ; 
Coats off under the chestnuts, pitching the rusted shoe 
That rings on the pins in the dreaming we dream of the 

skies of blue. 



Hurrah for the rusted horseshoe! Hurrah for the hickory 

pin ! 
Hurrah for the pitchers pitching in the ring and revel and 

din! 
With a thud in the dust they're falling, the quoits that 

the phantoms throw ; 
From the dust of the dead lips calling, the songs of the 

old days flow ; 
From courthouse yard and the alley beside the engine 

shed 
The horseshoes fly to the pivots from the hands of the 

dreamless dead ! 



Ever pitch quoits with a horseshoe? Oh, for the days 
that gleam 

Under the shade of the maples where I walk with the feet 
of dream ! 

Hurrah for the pegs of hickory ! Hurrah for the horse- 
shoe quoit ! 

God's grace to the dear old comrades who are lost in the 
lanes of fate ! 

Forever and ever I see them, as lads in the lands of glee, 

Where they smile with lips of shadow through dust and 
the dream to me ! 



Not Much Account. 

"Not much account! " was the word that they said, 
With a snap of the finger and toss of the head. 

"Not much account ? " How else could he be — 
The butt of the village, the theme of its glee ! 
A leer on his lips and a dull vapid eye, 
Not Much Account let the years pass him by ; 
Schoolchildren twitted him, after him rang 
The jest and the joke as they thoughtlessly sprang. 

"Not much account" — that was the word 
Everyone whispered and everyone heard. 

Limpy and crippled, a lisp in his speech, 
Deformed and deserted and far from the reach 
Of tenderness, treading the way that he went 
With poor helpless hands sadly stiffened and bent. 
Not Much Account — to' jesting stone-blind, 
He went, crippled soul, with his poor crippled mind ; 
Leering and lisping and stuttering still 
Over the meadow and over the hill ; 
Harmless and quiet and gentle, withal — 
"Not much account ! " was the town's daily call. 

Raggedy, draggedy, solemn or wise, 
With faraway dreams in his poor pauper eyes ; 
A tax on the town and a care to the folk, 
Who passed him along to a tune and a joke, 
Not Much Account hobbled on through the days, 
A lone, leering creature one meets on the ways ; 
Friendless, but friendly, submissive and meek, 



NOT MUCH ACCOUNT. 39 

Maybe sometimes with a tear on his cheek ; 
Maybe sometimes with a throb in his heart, 
A vision to touch him, and waken, and start. 

'Not much account ! " — well, that was the thought 

Till a deed of rare glory had one day been wrought, 

Till a sad, simple-minded, poor cripple and fool, 

One day when the children were romping from school, 

Sprang out in the road where a team thundered by — 

So ready for others to do and to die. 

An instant ! the hoofs of the mad steeds had hit 

The lad in the way, but the mind-of-no-wit 

Worked quick as the hand that reached out for the child, 

And saved it — but fell 'neath the hoofs beating wild. 

'Not much account ! " no longer they said 
In that place when they passed, with a shake of the head, 
For carved on the tomb that they reared to his name 
Was a town's tender tribute to fasten his fame. 
Limping and leering, they miss him today, 
Aimlessly wandering along on his way, 
And one mother kneels by the side of her lad 
To pray for all creatures, both simple and sad, 
And ask the dear God in His kingdom of rest 
That Not Much Account with His love may be blest ! 



Gingerbread Man. 

Gingerbread man in the old showcase, 
With funny fat fists and a big round face ; 
Gingerbread man, with the turned-out feet 
And little straight legs and the heels that meet ; 
Gingerbread man, with the icing frills 
Where your shirt ought to be — how my bosom fills 
When I think of you there in the old showcase 
In the dear old days of our childhood grace ! 

Gingerbread man in the old bakeshop, 

Next the horehound lozenge and choc' late drop ; 

Gingerbread man and the cinnamon loaf, 

And the old scotchcake that you warmed on the stove, 

Till it bent and twisted all ready to chew, 

Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! How do you do? 

Gingerbread man, to think of the tears 

We have shed for you since our childhood years ! 

Gingerbread man, are you lying there, 
With your icing eyes in their ghostly stare, 
And your funny nose and your sloping chin 
And a mouth with nothing to do but grin ? 
And who is the fellow that stands by the case ? 
Or is there a thing left there but space, 
And a whiff of dust, and an eerie gleam, 
And the phantom spell of a childhood dream ? 

Gingerbread man, you were worth five cents, 
For you were so fat and you had such sense, 



GINGERBREAD MAN. 41 

And the little old lady who iced you o'er 

With icing "pants" and a pinafore, 

Had taken such pains and worked so neat, 

From your gingerbread head to your gingerbread feet, 

That everyone thought you were cheap at that, 

Though there wasn't much room for your shoes or hat ! 

Gingerbread man, your brothers went 
To one and all for the price of a cent ; 
And one day — you'll forgive me now, 
For I was the hungriest lad, somehow 
I ate three brothers of yours, and then 
Turned round and ate three others again; 
How glad I am that I didn't eat you— 
For I know how badly I wanted to ! 

Gingerbread man in the old showcase, 
With funny fat hands and a big round face, 
I guess it's only your ghost that's there 
And I am talking to empty air — 
For the little old lady died long ago, 
And they tore the bakeshop down, I know, 
But I never can get it quite out of my head 
That lads never grow and the past isn't dead ! 

O gingerbread man, just play you are there, 
And the little lad stands by the case to stare 
At the horehound drops and the cinnamon loaf, 
And the scotchcake warming on top the stove ! 
Gingerbread man, if it is not so 
Don't stir one finger to let me know — 
Just let me dream it is true as gold, 
Dear gingerbread man of the days of old ! 



Doctor Arty. 

A dream of the past brings you back, Doctor Arty, 
With your smile full of cheer and your greeting so hearty! 
The little town sleeps as in child days of old, 
'Neath the tall maple trees with their tender enfold, 
And the shadows go by with a grace that is sweet 
In the gentle good-day of the quiet old street, 
And the rest and the calm and the neighborly cheer 
Unchanging in beauty from year unto year ! 

Dear druggist-physician, a little lad knew 

The tender devotion the town felt for you, 

And a little lad welcomed your generous mood 

When you turned to the drawer filled with licorice wood — 

That root of child-comfort bestowed with such grace, 

Such an affable charm in the smile on your face ; 

And all through the day, as he chewed, how he wrought 

little fancies of you in his tender child-thought ! 

The licorice-drops in the little round jar, 

It is only in dreams that we see where they are ; 

But childhoods made happy remember them still 

On the shelf in the store at the foot of the hill, 

And the friend of the child, with no thought of the measure 

Who sold for a cent heaping hands full of treasure, 

Nor counted the loss or the profit, but smiled 

In gentle response to the smile of the child ! 

A leaf in the wind is our life, if you must, 
And they say that his heart is a handful of dust, 



DOCTOR ARTY. 43 

While the tomb at his head and the rose at his feet 

On their lips of the velvet and marble repeat 

The charm of his nature, the grace of his life, 

How he made his sweet world less of sadness and strife, 

And the flowers broke in bloom, and the birds woke in song 

Down the maple-lined street as he hurried along ! 

Ah, dear Doctor Arty — I see the old store 
At the foot of the hill, as in child-days of yore ; 
And I know thy tall shadow must hover around, 
And thy voice — just a phantom of mystical sound — 
Still greet the old town with its gentle good- day 
As it drones at its duty and dreams on its way 
Where the little fat jar with its licorice-drops shines 
On the shelf 'mid the bottles with strange Latin lines ! 

God made him all gentleman, under the rough, 

With a shake of the head that at moments seemed gruff ; 

And he made him all patience that bloomed like a rose 

On the pathway of life with its cares and its woes ; 

For only a gentleman smiles as he smiled 

On the life of the town and the tears of the child, 

And only a gentleman goes as he went 

To the poor as a messenger God might have sent ! 

Ah, dear Doctor Arty — a little lad knew 

The tender devotion the town felt for you ! 

Dear druggist-physician, sweet friend of the child, 

Who came to you wounded, with heart beating wild, 

The bandage and lotion were much in their way, 

But more the kind ring of your gentle good-day, 

And more the sweet smile on your face, hale and hearty — 

Sweet sleep and sweet rest, and sweet dreams, Doctor Arty! 



The; Dear Old Village Street. 

The maples came together in green shadows o'er the head, 

The road was dry and dusty, but 'twas fit for kings to 

tread , 
For underneath the shadows and the sun that sifted 

through 
It stretched into the pastures and the green fields fresh 

and new ; 
It saw the little army of the child move up and down — 

That dear old shaded highway in the heart of Little Town! 



I shan't forget its glory though I live for many a day ; 

The splendor of the. cities shall not turn my feet away, 

And though the conquest calleth and the banners lure 

and lead 
I shall not wander farther than I have to in my need — 

For I have known the shadows of the maples where they 

meet 
Above the heads that wander down the dear old village 

street ! 

Ah, dear old shaded highway, up and down that dust of 

thine 
I see the children marching who were comrades once of 

mine ; 
I know the sweet old houses and the little shops that sleep 



THE DEAR OLD VILLAGE STREET. 45 

Beside the quiet pavements where the fading phantoms 

creep, 
And I am barefoot yonder with dear childhood's lost 

brigades 
To the drumbeat and the pipings in the old dishpan parades! 



Yea, the splendors of the cities fall around me as a mist, 
And I am in the little lanes that through the woodland 

twist, 
And tender voices call me and with songs of childhood 

grace 
I wander happy-hearted through the unforgotten place — 
The old home of my dreaming, with its maples bending 

sweet 
O'er the little phantom army in the dear old village street! 

The dancing lights are dreary in the cities of the bold, 
The templed ways are gilded that were once a dream of 

gold; 
But tender and unchanging, and so true and sweet and 

fine, 
The little towns of childhood in our dreams of childhood 

shine, 
And there beneath the maples, oh, forever and a day, 
TyOve leads us back in fancy where our old-time comrades 

play ! 



A Phantom of the Pike. 

The old road stretches away in the morn 
Where the hills roll by with their ranks of corn ! 
Over the bridges and on through the dale, 
The National highway, the route of the mail, 
The old turnpike from Baltimore Town, 
By mill and mallow, by dingle and down, 
Stretching on like a gray ghost- hand 
Over the mountains to Cumberland ! 

This afternoon as I stopped by the brink 
Of a wayside pool for a cooling drink, 
The old road somehow drifted away 
From the dusty rattle of present day, 
And there in the sleep of the other years, 
A Conestoga, with clattering gears — 
A six-span team with its hugh white tent — 
Over the National highway went ! 

On old South Mountain, about the place 

Where L,ady Dahlgren, of courtly grace, 

Turned the inn of the olden day 

Into a home where her cheer held sway 

The team stopped short and the driver led 

His outspanned mares to the torrent's bed, 

Then lit the fire and put on a stew 

And slept, with his loved, 'neath the starlit blue ! 

A fox barked near and the night-bird sang, 
And suddenly echoed a ringing clang 



A PHANTOM OF THE PIKE. 

Of iron hoofs striking the solid road, 

And a steed pressed on 'neaththe rider's goad — 

"Only the courier ! Peace, my dears," 

The teamster utters. Then faintly cheers 

The stately coach rolling over the way, 

Bearing to Washington Henry Clay ! 

There is life in the inn. The hostlers leap 

With a ruddy smile from their mountain sleep : 

The Sieur de L,afayette — may be 

The guest is even as great as he ; 

Or Daniel Webster, or Jefferson, 

Peers of those great days greatly won 

From strife and struggle. Out gleams the light. 

The inn is revel. No sleep tonight ! 

Then morn, and the teamster up with sun, 
Hooked and all of his feeding done : 
Ye-ho ! the cumbersome wagon rolls, 
Freighted with goods, and the precious souls — 
Wife and babies — true pioneers, 
Seeking the West of the other years, 
Out of the valleys of Frederick wheat 
O'er the winding way to Ohio, sweet ! 

Dreaming there by the roadside pool, 
With its rippling current so clear and cool, 
The phantom passed and the vision died, 
And the inn was gone, with its liveried pride ; 
But the old road stretches, a hand of gray, 
For me through the valleys of yesterday ; 
And the six-span team, with its tent of snow, 
Rolls by when I think of the Long Ago ! 



Thk Bowlkgged Man. 



'Bantyleg, batityleg, where are you from? 
You must have been riding astride of a drum ! 
All up with your prowess, all up with your jig, 
If ever you started to fender a pig ! ' ' 
This was the cry that the little town sent 
Wherever Bowleggedy Butterball went — 
The jest of the village, the joke of the place, 
But, Banty could win when it came to a race ! 



The captain who captured him first on his nine 

Was a victor all season. He took the base line 

In a flight not exactly a leap or a run ; 

He rolled himself up and his little legs spun, 

And long ere the fielder had captured the ball 

Bantyleg struck the home plate with a sprawl. 

Whenever his turn came to handle the bat 

The nine scored a run, there was no doubt of that ! 



The fire comp'nies fought for him year after year 

To capture the plug with a shout and a cheer. 

With his uniform on in the village parade 

He looked like a beetle in splendor arrayed ; 

But he marched to the tune of the old country band, 

As proud as the proudest in all the broad land — 

A red shirt of glory, a buff overcoat, 

And a hat, fore and aft, most as big as a boat ! 



THE BOWLEGGED MAN. 49 

The regiment forming enlisted him, too : 
He carried the water, for something to do, 
And when the red rattle and thunder of war 
Came knocking one morning on Bantyleg's door 
He sprang to the rally and followed the ray 
Of the flag to the heart and the heat of the fray. 
"One thing," he shouted, "you'll see me again ; 
I'll straddle the balls and the bullets, dipen ! " 



And he did ! Not a scracth had he borne when he came 

Home again, happy and agile and game ! 

With the badge of a veteran he walked with renown, 

A relic of laughter long years in the town. 

Shoemaker, carpenter, sexton as well, 

Funeral or wedding, he tolled the old bell, 

And smiled the old smile when they laughed at his legs 

And his penchant for checkers and mumbletypegs. 

'Bantylegs Butterball, bowlegged man, 
Catch me and kick me, if catch me you can ! " 
Youngsters who shouted this challenge to him 
Are phantasms dim as those old days are dim, 
But still through the valley of memory I see 
The dear little town that was home town to me, 
And laugh when I think of that shape on the street 
With knees that had parted to nevermore meet ! 



The; Cheeriby Chums. 

Down through the dreaming of childhood to me 
They walk arm in arm, as they used to, in glee. 
Chums and playfellows, one short and one tall, 
In song and in sweetness, in shadow and pall, 
The talk of the town — for wherever they went 
Their hearts were together, their heads ever bent 
In laughter or whisper of confidence sweet 
Under the maples of Cheeriby street ! 

L,ong chum and short chum, in childhood's sweet day, 
They were ever together in venture or play, 
And when they grew up they were chums just the same- 
Comrades in labor and comrades at game. 
Their families laughed and would often remark : 
'You fellows beat all for the time that you spark ; 
You're closer than brother is close to a brother, 
It's a wonder you wouldn't go marry each other ! " 

If short chum had trouble, long chum came along 
Bestriding right over the top of the throng, 
And heaven help the cause of the little fall-out 
If short chum were hurt when long chum was about ! 
They sawed wood together, and brought water, too, 
For working seemed playing, old comrades, to you. 
At church and at shows and at meetings at night 
It was all hunkydory when they came in sight ! 

At church, for example, the preacher would say : 
'We'll now sing a hymn, then, after we pray, 

50 



THE CHEERIBY CHUMS. 51 

The Cheeriby chums the collection will take — 

May you all give a mite for the dear Master's sake!" 

Then long chum and short chum, So stately and grave, 

Would pass round the plates like true Christians and brave; 

But over the church ran an audible smile — 

For they both walked together adown the same aisle ! 

In school and "academy," year after year. 
They studied in friendship and comradeship dear. 
When one went in business the other went, too, 
And what but the natural thing should they do 
But join their resources and open one store 
And go on with chumming the same as before — 
Partners in childhood and partners alway. 
Ah, dear old companions, I miss you today ! 

One night unto Cheeriby came the wild news 
That comp'nies were forming by ones and by twos ; 
That over the waves of the soft Caribbee 
The country had need of her sons of the free. 
Dong chum and short chum were first in the line, 
Shoulder to shoulder in courage divine, 
Down to the transports and over the tide 
They rushed to the battlefield, side unto side ! 

Down through the visions of childhood to me 
The ghosts of those comrades still dance in their glee, 
But memory is dim with the tears the town shed 
One morn when the newspaper bulletins said, 
As hearts stopped their beating in sorrow that day, 
And lips read these lines in the news of the fray : 
'With face to the battle, in step to^the drums, 
They[both f ell (together — the^Cheeriby^chums ! ' ' 



The; Village Volunteers. 

We wore the red shirts and the huge leather belt 

Of the old volunteers, and how proudly we felt 

When we pulled the machine and as flames lit the sky 

Made her clattering pumps and her huge handles fly ! 

We named her the Ajax, and, twenty men strong, 

We pulled her with pride through the shouts of the throng 

On highdays and holidays, polished and bright, 
We decked her with flags and with blossoms outright, 
And there in the line, just behind the old band, 
We moved with a tread that was stately and grand, 
With bowing and scraping to this one and that, 
And the sweat pouring down underneath every hat ! 

There were contests and picnics and frolics galore 
For the old volunteers in the glad days of yore, 
And rivalries burning between little towns 
When contests were held on the highways and downs, 
With loyalties lasting through long years of strife 
To the engines we pulled in the young days of life ! 

Oft when the firemen go thundering by 

In the cities of splendor, with steeds prancing high, 

My thoughts drift away to the dust-laden street 

Of the little town sleeping where maple trees meet, 

And I long to go back to the beautiful years 

For a run once again with the old volunteers ! 

52 



Homk-IvOve; and Childhood. 



The Invisible Playmate. 

All day in the swing of his fancy ; the lilt of his laughter, 

he goes, 
Whose life is a gleam in the sunlight, a lily, a pearl and 

a rose ; 
And there to a phantom talking, with a phantom by his 

side, 
He moves with a shadowy playmate, together they romp 

and glide. 

I hear through the hours of his revel his little tongue 

chatter away ; 
Alone, but not lonesome, he follows the fairies that flit 

through the day. 
He shares with his dream and his phantom his blocks 

and his drum and his horn, 
And he talks to his dear little playmate, invisible there in 

the morn. 

They seem such good comrades and friendly, and get on 

together so well ; 
There's never a moment of quarreling and never a sorrow 

to tell ; 
The phantom does just as he wants him, the shadow 

plays everything right — 
O beautiful playmates that revel lighthearted in realms 

of light ! 

They plan and they ponder together, the living locked 
arms with the dream ; 

55 



56 THE INVISIBLE PLAYMATE 

They sail on invisible waters and fish in a make-believe 

stream ; 
They tunnel for coal in dream mountains and fight in 

invisible wars, 
And they hide in the walls of their fortress when the 

enemy's battery roars. 

They launch little ships of Columbus and voyage upon 

perilous wave 
To discover the regions of wonder and islands of Crusoe, 

the brave ; 
And now they are voluble trainmen, with engines that 

whistle and flash 
As on through the valleys of fancy and over the mountain 

they dash. 

All day in the childheart splendor, a lad of the legions 

of fun, 
With a little invisible playmate talks on as they laugh 

in the sun ; 
And, happy and heartfree together, I lean and look down 

on them there 
And dream of my own vanished playmates, dear phantoms 

that float everywhere ! 

Ay, tender, invisible comrades, like children of old at 

our play 
We dance in the dews of the morning and dance through 

the dreams of the day ; 
And arm upon arm in the sunlight, with laughter and 

longing and tears, 
We move like an army of shadows far down in the valley 

of years ! 



The; Dishpan Band. 

Down the lanes of morning, in the land of little feet, 

I hear the bugles blowing and the trumpets sounding 

sweet ; 
I see the starry banners flutter over golden heads, 
Where glory to the tune of joy upon the roses treads. 

Down the streets of laughter, fours-front forward, here 
they come, 

A broomstick for a musket and a dishpan for a drum — 

The bravest, brightest soldiers, and the tenderest, for- 
sooth, 

Who fight the bloodless battles in the golden dream of 
youth. 

Play up, ye bonny trumpets ! I hear your echo there 
In valleys of the beautiful and lanes of never care ; 
The little drums are rolling — the kettle and the bass — 
And love is like a holiness upon each little face. 

Down the dreaming villages of boyhood's long ago 

The dishpan band is marching where the tides of battle 

flow — 
The battle of the roses and the lilies, where the hosts 
Are little shapes of shadow in the land of happy ghosts. 

The swords of lath are gleaming in the shimmer of the 

dew — 
All hail, my little captain, to the freckled face of you ! 

57 



58 THE DISHPAN BAND. 

In step to willow whistles and the little painted fife 
The army of the morning moves across the fields of life. 



God guard the fearless phalanx ere the battlefield of years 
O'erwhelms it in the tumult of the turmoil and the tears ! 
The sun has kist its banners with the crimson of his gleam , 
Play up, O fairy bugles, for the feet that march in dream ! 

Play up, ye battered trumpets ! Play up, ye pipes of joy ! 
The dawn salutes the glory of the army of the boy, 
And far o'er fields of echo and from old days to me 
The vision of the little host drifts over lane and lea ! 

Good morning, sergeant-major! And here's an old heart's 

kiss 
Unto the brave lieutenants in the ranks of boyhood bliss! 
Down the lanes of morning in the childheart way it comes, 
The dishpan band of glory, to the music of the drums ! 



A I,itti,e; Child L,aughkd. 

A little child laughed — and the sun came out. 

A little child laughed — glory echoed his shout. 

The birds caught the wonder and carried it far 

In the song that they sang to the clouds and the star. 

A little child laughed — and the shadows and mist 
By the beams of love's beautiful sunshine were kissed. 
A little child laughed — and our burden and care 
Fell away as our sorrows fall away after prayer ! 



Doctor Mother. 

A little wound, a little ache, 
A little blistered thumb to take 
With touch of love and make it well — 
These things require a mother's spell. 
Ah, sweet the progress of the skill 
That science brings unto the ill ! 
Vast range of methods new and fine ; 
But when our little ones repine, 
The mother is the very best 
Of doctors into service prest ! 

Sunshine and air and mother's spell 

Of helping little lads get well, 

And helping little lasses, too — 

Here are three remedies that do 

So much more, often, than the grave, 

Skilled hands that try so hard to save. 

For Doctor Mother, don't you know, 

Gives something more than skill — gives so 

Much of herself ; gives, oh, so much 

Of love's sweet alchemy of touch ! 

Upon a little wardroom bed 
A little curl- encircled head, 
A little slender hand and pale, 
A little lonesome, home-sick wail: 
Loved nursing, best of skill and care ; 
But, oh, behold the wonder there 
When Doctor Mother, bearing sun 

59 



DOCTOR MOTHER. 

From where trie wilding roses run, 

Leans down, with hungering love and kiss— 

There is no medicine like this ! 

In little child-heart's hour of woe, 

Pain, ache or life- wound's throb and throe, 

The Doctor Mother knows so well 

The weaving of love's wonder-spell — 

Just what the little heart requires, 

Just how to cool the fever fires ; 

Just how much tenderness and cheer 

Will calm the little doubt and fear. 

How much of gentleness will ease — 

Alone she knows such arts as these ! 



Child's Prayer at Morn. 

Father, rising from my sleep 

Through the night that Thou didst keep 

Watch beside my little bed, 

That I might be comforted 

With the dreaming that is meet 

For a childhood that is fleet — 

Guard my tongue, my hand, today, 

That I may not do or say 

Aught unkind to any one 

Or a service leave undone 

Through whose mission hearts might be 

Lifted unto grace through Thee ! 

Father, leadline out of night, 

Trusting to Thy guiding light, 

And throughout this golden day 

Keep me sinless all the way ! 



Second Boyhood. 



He had a willow whistle and a fish hook that had been 
Made with a youngster's witchery by the bending of a pin; 
He'd cut a slender sapling for a pole and made a line 
From little scraps of hempen cord and little snips of twine; 
His feet were bare, head tousled — but his smile was good 

to see, 
And when I looked at him it brought my boyhood back 
• to me! 



He put his willow whistle to his lips and blew a blast 
That echoed down the valleys where the blooms were 

tangled fast; 
Another youngster joined him, with another tousled head, 
And on the conquering hero his recruited comrade led. 
They wandered off in glory and I watched them as in 

dream, 
And I went with them down yonder to the little fishing 

stream! 



That day I saw them feeling, where the water ran so cool, 
Its ripples lave their bare feet as they dangled in the pool, 
And I could see them shedding shirt and overalls with vim 
As they turned aside from fishing for an old-time boyhood 

swim. 
Ah, never felt the water half so good or half so fine 
As in that hour of fancy with those boyhood friends of 

mine! 



62 SECOND BOYHOOD. 

I saw them leave the ripples when the afternoon drew 

near, 
And summer sunshine sizzled the oppressive atmosphere. 
The\ T struck across the meadows for a neighboring melon 

field 
To test the juicy fragrance of the huge and fruitful yield; 
I saw them try the peaches, and amid the orchard's hush 
Taste the golden, mellow apples that we called the 

maiden's blush! 



I saw them come at evening with a string of "yellow 

neds," 
Their tousled topnots showing" through the straw hats on 

their heads, 
Brown as twin autumn berries and as happy as the birds 
With songs to tell the gladness that they could not tell 

in words— 
And how I longed to go with them unto the garret room 
To heal life's sweetest tiredness with the sleep that dreams 

of bloom! 



A youngster with a whistle whittled out of willow wood — 
How little could he know of all he brought to me of good, 
How little could he fathom that beside the little stream 
I sat in silent shadow dreaming all his boyhood dream! 
How little could he understand that in his careless glee 
The gates of youth had swung again that golden day for 
me! 



The Holdup. 



'Twas dusk, and alone on the road I came, 
Whistling the words of a golden name, 
Dreaming and happy and glad to be 
So close to the hearts that were waiting me, 
When ' 'Halt! ' ' and in front of my path appeared 
Two bandits, minus the mask and beard, 
But fierce and terrible, brave and bold, 
As if they would slay me to get my gold. 



"A kiss or your life!" outrang the cry, 
As I went walking and dreaming by; 

"A kiss, a kiss, or we'll lay you low! 
We belong to the Robin Hood, you know; 

A kiss, a kiss; stand fast, good sir!" 

I looked at him, and I looked at her, 
And both together I clasped them tight 
In the loving hug of a father's right! 



The highwaymen in Ljghtheart Dane 

No doubt are waiting there again; 

In the cloistered sweet of the evenlight 

They'll hold me up night after night, 

They'll bend in the brambles and hide in the rye 

And leap to the road as I saunter by, 

And gather a forfeit of golden bliss 

With their ringing cry of "A kiss! A kiss!" 

63 



64 THE HOLDUP. 

So, ho, dear knights of the golden way! 
Go on with the dream of the childheart day, 
Fill high with danger the little lane 
To the golden life and the heart's refrain! 
With gleaming eyes and the rumpled hair, 
Leap up from the bloomy ambush there, 
And take the fee, dear lad, clear lass, 
As wandering there in a dream I pass! 

Some da}^ the road will seem so long, 

So far away in the golden song, 

And when I come with weary feet 

To a gray head waiting so silken sweet, 

'Tis only echo will cry: ' 'A kiss! ' ' 

And only the shadows of youth and bliss 

Will hold me up with a shadow scream 

From the lips of child in the land of dream! 



LET Him Laugh. 

Let him laugh, with his lips a- thrill ; 

Oh, nag him not with a "Do be still ! " 

Let him laugh, for he cannot be 

A lad very long in the land of glee ; 

Let him laugh, with the rippling swing 

Of the silvery laughter of childhood's spring ; 

Let him laugh till the notes ring out 

With the golden charm of the childhood shout ; 

Let him laugh, for it won't be long 

Ere childhood's dream is an ended song, 

And only an echo, afar, away, 

Will sound on his lips in the land of play ! 



The Hand of A Mother. 



The hand of a mother — remember it had 

An infinite tenderness, don't yon, my lad ? 

So soft for caressing, and wasn't it dear 

To have it around you in moments of fear, 

To feel its sweet healing again and again 

Pass over your temples when fevered with pain ? 

v So cooling, so gentle, so loving — ah me, 

How good the dear hand of a mother could be ! 



The hand of a mother — one could not forget 
Its grace that is lingering over us yet ; 
Its velvet, frail fingers, its delicate pose, 
Its texture as soft as the feel of a rose, 
Its wonderful soothing when laid on the brow- 
We lived for it theii, and we dream of it now, 
As out of the shadows and shapes of the past 
Its beautiful ministry reaches at last ! 



The hand of a mother — a child in the dark, 
With heart that beat fast in the dusk standing stark, 
Saw light and saw trusting and no need of fear 
When mother's hand held him so close and so near ! 
In dread and in danger, in flash of the storm, 
When terror shook fiercely a little lad's form, 
Ah, hand of soft beauty, just that in his own, 
And terror had vanished and danger had flown ! 



THE HAND OF A MOTHER 

The hand of a mother — it might have seemed cruel 

Sometimes to a lad misbehaving at school ; 

It might have seemed stern in the large days of life 

With its gentle restraint of one's wild will of strife; 

But never the young heart that felt of its blows 

Remembers it now but as one would a rose 

That strikes with soft fragrance the sense of one's trust 

To lift it from error and cleanse it of dust ! 



The hand of a mother — 'tis true, as they sa3^, 
It is leading us all, as in old times, today ! 
And love of her sweetness and trust in her love 
Keep the head and the heart ever lifted above. 
So soft through the shadows, so cool to the pain, 
It lays its sweet grace on our temples again ; 
So tender, so gentle, so patient — ah me, 
How good the dear hand of a mother could be ! 



Prayrr. 



Two little hands 'neath a baby face, 

Two little lips in the lispings of grace, 

Two little eyes that are closed from the gleam, 

And a little heart leaning on God in the dream 



Chatterbox.- 

Once I knew a little girl — 
Dimple-cheek and hair a-curl — 
Never said a thing at all 
When the comp'ny came to call 
And her mother tried to show — 
Just as mothers will, you know — 
All her cute and charming ways, 
All the cunning tricks she plays. 
Never was a bit of use, 
She just wouldn't talk, the goose! 

But when she was by herself, 
Then she talked enough, the elf! 
Chatter, chatter went her tongue, 
Oh, the merry songs she sung, 
And the laughter ringing sweet, 
And the dancing of her feet, 
And the gladness of her face 
Love had gloried with its grace! 
Never had to coax at all 
'Till the comp'ny came to call! 

When I used to take her hand 
For a walk in happy land, 
It were tame to say she "spoke;" 
All her soul in speech awoke; 
Questions, questions, how they sped, 
Question unto question wed! 
All the mysteries of the field, 
Why the roses fragrance yield — 

67 



68 CHATTERBOX. 

Chatter, chatter all the way 

Rang her sweetness through the day 

If the preacher came to dine, 
Mother dressed her fair and fine: 

"Now do talk to him, my dear!" 
But 'twas wasted care. I fear, 
For the dominie in vain 
Sought her friendliness to gain, 
Till at last he shook his head: 

"Cat has got her tongue!" he said. 
Not more stolid sits the sphinx 
Than her ladyship, the minx! 

Next day where the roses rain 
O'er the lattice in the lane, 
Never was such chatter heard 
From the throat of child or bird! 
Not content with child heart speech 
To the dollies in her reach, 
Phantom playmates round her came 
At her call to join the game; 
Song and story, chime and cheer, 
Till the dreamy dusk drew near! 

Ah, the mystery of the Child, 
In its own world, undefiled! 
Who shall solve it, who shall know 
All its golden gleam and glow, 
All the wonder of its will 
When, with little lips a- thrill, 
It shall render each to each 
Sweetness of its treasured speech, 
Or, in silence go its way, 
With: "I'm not on show today!" 



The Little Lame Lad at the Window. 

I see him each day at the window, the little lame lad 

over there, 
In his little white bed on the pillow propped up with a 

turned-over chair ; 
The roses have faded that blossomed one time on his pale 

little face, 
And his fingers are fragile and tender as a girl's in their 

delicate grace ; 
His eyes, wide with wonder and wistful, oh, would it 

were given to me 
To gaze, little eyes, on the visions of sacred, sweet beauty 

you see ! 

In spring when the warm winds are fragrant and bird 

songs are sweet on the air, 
They wheel him beside the low window, the lad who is 

lame over there — - 
And then to the cheeks that have faded, and then to the 

eyes like a dream, 
There comes the soft shadow of beauty borne in on the 

wings of the gleam, 
And his little hands fold in their pity, his little head 

sinks on his breast, 
And he smiles through the dream of the music where 

rivulets ripple to rest! 

Old schoolmates come by with their greeting, old play- 
mates bring bunches of bloom 



70 THE LITTLE LAME LAD AT THE WINDOW. 

To brighten the lonely day's sickness and perfume the 

invalid's room ; 
Dim memories of old times among them and laughter of 

tender, dead days 
Drift in from the meadows of magic where again in his 

dreaming he plays ; 
And the touch and the tune of it cheer him and give him 

the hope to be strong 
And laugh and leap up and be roving away in the valley 

of song ! 



The arms of a mother are near him, the warmth of her 

heart is his wealth, 
And she sings little hymns for his comfort and feeds him 

with visions of health ; 
There are books and old volumes of pictures and little 

devices of cheer 
In the quiet sweet world of his suffering that help him 

to hold back the tear. 
But ever the face at the window — ah, wistful and wan 

little lad, 
I know how you long for the meadows, to romp and be 

free and be glad ! 



The little lame lad at the window — O roses, climb up to 

his sill, 
And there on the trellis, blithe robin, set all your wild 

music a- trill ! 
Blow, wind of the wonder of springtime, and dance, little 

dream o' the dew, 
Till his heart is o'erbrimmed with the comfort and beauty 

and sweetness of you ! 



THE LITTLE LAME LAD AT THE WINDOW. 71 

Drift, butterflies, over the clover and into the hands he 

will hold 
To touch with soft ardor and tender the delicate dust of 

your gold ! 

The little lame lad at the window — oh, I am afraid that 

some day 
When I go to smile up with my greeting they'll tell me 

he's wandered away ! 
And I shall be lonely, so lonely, but he will be glad I am 

sure, 
In the rest and the heal of the waters that flow for lame 

lads that are pure ; 
And the roses shall climb to his window, and the lily 

shall lay its white crest 
In the pale little hands they have folded on the weary 

white dream of his breast ! 



Each In His World. 

Each in his little world, doing the thing that's to do, 
Serving within his place, earnestly, sweet and true ; 
Each in his little world, thus as the great days call, 
Each is a part of the Whole in the service of All and All. 

Each in his little world, doing the best that he knows, 
Smiling if under the rain, smiling if under the rose ; 
Each in his little world building the world of the Whole, 
With heart upon heart the living dome reaches the height 
of the soul ! 



Christmas in the Valleys. 



Christmas in the valleys, Christinas on the hills — 
They're coming home, the strollers, with the song that 

rings and thrills ! 
Home unto the valleys from the white ways where they 

roam, 
To Christmas in the vallevs with the old folks at home ! 



The holly and the myrtle, the spruce and mistletoe, 
Are twined upon the mantel and around the tender glow 
Of the old, familiar portraits in their ovals on the wall, 
And they've lit the little candle on the old stand in the hall ! 



Christmas in the valleys Christmas on the hills — 
The hearts that weary wander 'mid the clatter of the mills, 
That tremble in the cities, as they toss upon the foam, 
They're coming to the valleys, to the little country home! 



The mother's hands have labored weeks and days before 

the time, 
Her old lips all a-tremble with the tender Christmas 

chime ; 
The pantry glows with splendor and the sand- cake and 

the tart 
Fill the bowl beside the jumbles that are shaped just like 

her heart ! 

72 



CHRISTMAS IN THE VALLEYS. 73 

Christmas in the valleys, Christmas on the hills, 

The heart of loving memory nothing else but "Christmas' 

trills ; 
And they're coming from the marvel of the cities where 

they roam 
To the old sweet, tender people and the old, love-litten 

home ! 

The father sings and whistles as he used to when a child; 
His rugged face is softened and his glance is sweet and 

mild ; 
The grown-up sons and daughters, they are coming from 

the charms 
Of the madding, whirling city to the Christmas of his 

arms ! 

Christmas in the valleys, Christmas on the hills — 

No wonder that the heart throbs and the tender bosom 

thrills ! 
There's nothing ever, ever, for the weary feet that roam 
Like a Christmas in the valleys with the old folks at home ! 



When Love Comes Home. 

When love comes home old trouble hasn't any room to 

stay, 
Dull care packs up his duds and goes along the rocky 

way ; 
When love comes home the sunshine melts the winter's 

drifted snows 
And all around the doorway of the heart the violet grows. 



The Cruise oe the Fender Ship. 

The Fender Ship is a beautiful boat— ye-ho, ye-ho, ye-ho! 
With Captain Curly I^ocks on deck, to the beautiful isles 

we go ; 
To the wonderful Island of Story Book that lies in the 

fairy sea, 
Where the waters dance in the blithe romance of the 

lightheart, childheart glee. 

Ye-ho, ye-ho, we speed away 
Out of the harbor's dusk and gray ! 
Ye-ho, we glide in the eventide; ye-ho, we swing and 

sweep, 
Till the anchors slip on their silver chains in the Port 

of Dreamland Sleep ! 

The Fender Ship sails out each night before the clock 

strikes eight, 
Across the bar where firelogs star the chimney's golden 

gate. 
Ye-ho, the captain sings, while I, ye-ho in answer call, 
As round his curly locks the sands of golden slumber fall. 
Ye-ho, ye-ho, to islands sweet 
We join the song-and-story fleet. 
Ye-ho, we sing, as on we swing across the ocean's gleam, 
To Cinderella's crystal hall and Sinbad's golden dream ! 

The Fender Ship is deep and wide, and safe and snug and 

tight, 
With rockers to the left of it and rockers to the right ; 
From havens of the fireside glow, with magic carpets 

there, 

74 



THE CRUISE OP THE FENDER SHIP. 75 

It sails at eight across the grate on billows of the air. 

Ye-ho, ye-ho, while soft winds blow 

To isles of sugar plum we go. 
Ye-ho, we drift where palm trees lift and mangrove blos- 
soms are, 
Beyond the capes of weariness and o'er love's harbor bar ! 

The Fender Ship is all our own — we're captain and we're 

mate, 
We turn the wheel and point the bow, with never fear 

of fate — 
For though in storm we venture forth o'er sea or lake or 

brook, 
In calm of sleep we know she'll creep to Ports of Story 

Book. 

Ye-ho, ye-ho, the winds are sweet, 
We tread the deck with dancing feet. 
Ye-ho, we sail, while o'er the rail the mermaids float and 

sing— 
Ye-ho, she goes, by palm and rose, by violet shores of 

Spring ! 

The Fender Ship's a bonny boat, so snug beneath the 
moon, 

So beautiful to sail on her to sleep's soft slumber tune ; 

So sweet the golden course she steers across the fairy sea, 

Round isles of song and isles of rest and isles of pillow- 
glee. 

Ye-ho, ye-ho, across the bar, 
We set the compass by the star ! 

Ye-ho, we wing, where mermaids sing and all the child- 
hood visions gleam ; 

Ye-ho, and, lo ! her anchors go, homebound into the 
Ports of Dream ! 



The Battlefield. 

A mother's heart is a battlefield, 

A mother's heart is a nest 
Where love leans down with feathery shield 

And lips that sing to rest. 
A mother's heart is the plain where meet 

Through all her days of life 
The legions of the childhood feet, 

The glittering hosts of strife. 



A mother's heart is a field of war 

Where none may know, may see, 
The wounds that bleed, the guns that roar, 

The anguished hours that be. 
A mother's heart is battle's home, 

But oh, so few have knelt 
With her where shadows fill the gloam, 

Have felt what she has felt ! 



A mother's heart is warfare's realm; 

In it, unseen of time, 
Rage the grim wars that overwhelm 

But for her faith sublime. 
A mother's heart is where she hides 

So much she never tells ; 
So much that in her soul abides 

And conquering lovehood quells. 



THE BATTLEFIELD. 

A mother's heart — oh, sacred place, 

Oh, templed fane, how fair 
To kneel beside its shrine of grace, 

To kneel and worship there! 
A mother's heart is calm retreat, 

Is rest and love and song, 
And round it ah, how tender-sweet 

The shades of memory throng ! 



A mother's heart has seen so much, 

Has felt and borne and known 
The rugged blow, the tender touch. 

Within its wardering zone ; 
Has borne so much for those that lean 

Upon its help and trust ; 
Has done so much to keep them clean, 

To lift them from the dust ! 



A mother's heart is a battlefield 

Where sacred strife has been ; 
Where spear on spear and shield on shield 

Hath raged the battle's din ! 
O holy shrine, inviolate spot, 

Where love and memory come 
When all the rest of life's forgot, 

And all the rest is dumb ! 



The Building of the House. 

One puts into the house he builds 

Labor and skill and care, 
But what is the use if there be not love 

To hive and harbor there ? 
Solomon built of the precious wood « 

And built of the precious stone, 
But he built for the daughter of Pharaoh, too, 
And not for himself alone. 

O builder, building the house, 

Skill and labor and care 
Won't do alone, nor the wood and stone, 
But love must be builded there. 

The plans are drawn and the measure ta'en, 

The deep foundations dug ; 
The festal day of the cornerstone 
Is come with tambour and jug ; 
The beams are tied and the pillars rise, 

The frames are set in place ; 
But the finished guise is a woman's eyes 
And the light of a woman's face. 
O builder, building the house, 

Now what are the wood and stone, 
If all of care builds not love there, 
For a house should be love's own ! 

The doors are hung and the windows set, 

The roof is stanch and tight ; 
The inner beauty with grace and charm 

Wakes songs for the heart's delight ; 

78 



THE BUILDING OF THE HOUSE. 

The walls are touched with the glow of art, 

The ceilings are sweet to view, 
With tints that blend to a perfect end, 
But what is all that to you ? 

O builder, building the house, 

A song and a sigh must go 
Along the way all day, all day — 
A song that you love her so ! 

The hour for the bride is nigh, 

The finished house is a home ; 
The daughter of Pharaoh shall enter in 

To a feast 'neath the royal dome ; 
And better than walls of jewels, 

And better than breath of myrrh, 
Is a heart to beat and the lips love-sweet 
Of the lover that waits for her. 
O builder, building the house, 
Though it be hovel of straw, 
With a roof of thatch, Rome has no match 
For a house where love is law ! 

Solomon built for thirteen years, 

Built and sang and dreamed, 
For the eyes of love and the throat of dove 

And the brows where his Egypt gleamed ; 
And the builders are building today 

With labor and skill and care 
The houses of dream where the roses gleam 
To harbor a heart's love there. 

O builder, building the house, 

Now what are the wood and stone 
If all of care builds not love there, 
For a house should be love's own ! 



A Little Knock. 



A little hand came knocking on my door : 
"Let me turn in : I won't be bad no more !" 
A little voice in tearful murmur plead — 
Somehow I wish that I had long been dead 
Ere from her knocking I could turn away, 
Ere to her pleading I could answer nay, 
Or yet refuse to ope and let her in, 
Who had so little done of guile or sin. 



Strong as we are to live and do the right, 
We are weak men in anger, we who fight 
The daily battle, bravely and serene, 
Until at home cross-currents intervene ; 
A word or action wearies us, and lo, 
Unto our bolted privacy we go, 
Forgetting love, forgetting to be mild 
To patient wife and little pleading child ! 



O little hand, that knocked so long for me ! 

O little voice, with teardrops in your plea ! 

Out of my silent chamber I would fly 

If I could hear once more your plaintive cry, 

If I could reach across the vanished years 

And lift you up and wipe away the tears 

And through these passionate memories in eclipse 

Lay my forgiveness on your little lips ! 



A LITTLE KNOCK. 

No bolt or bar upon my door tonight ! 
Here at the window in the evenlight 
I lean my ears to summon once again 
The sound of memory in its sweet refrain, 
And as the zephyr sweeps the apple bloom; 
I lean, O dear one, to thy little tomb ! 
I call to thee across the mists to come— 
Why art thou silent and the echoes dumb ? 



You would be welcome, darling, if you came 

In the soft night of summer, or the flame 

Of dewy morning on the green-girt hill, 

With your immortal lips to kiss and thrill ! 

O door that closed upon you that far day, 

It should be opened, little one, to stay, 

For grief has taught me through the contrite years 

The cost of anger when we pay with tears ! 



The Noise in the Room. 

The dear little, queer little noise that you hear 
When you lie down to sleep in the twilight, my dear, 
Is the quaint little, faint little step of the dream 
As she climbs to your bed on the silver moonbeam ! 

The gray little, fay little shadow you see 
When first you look up in the morning to me, 
Is the sweet little, fleet little dream on her way 
To her home in the clouds for the rest of the day ! 



The Song oe the Sword. 

I remember the day that she hung me here 

On the wall by the musket's side, 
And kissed my blade with a tender touch 

For the honor of him that died ; 
I heard her say that I'd served him well, 

And he trusted his life to me 
As he grasped my hilt with his valiant hand 

And swung to the saddle free. 

She came to me in the dark alone 

As the long years fluttered by 
And I heard her song and I felt her kiss 

And I thrilled to her tender sigh. 
I knew that she saw us in visions sweet 

When the bugles blew to the charge 
And he swung me forth to the gleaming sun 

And I swept through the human targe. 

She came one day when her locks were gray, 

And took me from the wall ; 
She wiped the rust of the years away, 

For again rang the bugle call. 
She laid my hilt in a stalwart hand — 

My master's son, I knew — 
And the drums awoke and the troops marched by 

And the trumps of the carnage blew. 

I leaped to the life of the battle-roar, 
The spirit of strife awoke ; 



THE SONG OF THE SWORD. 

I danced in the light of my blade that shone 
Through the flame and the powder-smoke. 

My steel rang clear on the foeman's steel; 
Then, stiffened and cold and still, 

I felt the clasp of the hand that had drawn 
My blade with a hero- will. 

I am hanging again on the chamber wall ; 

The summers have bloomed and fled ; 
There are two 'neath the hill that are slumbering 
sweet — 

The dead that are greatly dead ! 
Sweatheart, mother, she softly glides 

Through the shadows wherein I hang, 
And lays her ear to my blade to hear 

The echo of battle's clang. 

Her lips are warm with the breath of love ; 

O woman, who gave her brave 
To her country's call and the battle's thrall 

And the peace of the soldier's grave ! 
She breathes her prayer in her tender way 

And listens to hear me tell 
How fiercely they rode to the lines of death, 

How nobly they fought and fell. 

Her gray head bends to the song, the dusk 

Steals silently through the room ; 
The birds are asleep in their little nests 

Where the cannon were wont to boom. 
Her cheek is soft on my polished face, 

Here pale hand claspeth me — 
Ah, worn, wan lady, you're dreaming to-night, 

And the dead have come back to thee ! 



A IyiTTijj Hand. 



A little hand within my hand, 

And I am king of men ! 
A little arm about my neck — 

Good-bye to sorrow then ! 
A litttle dimpled mouth to kiss, 

A pair of sunny eyes 
Filled with the light of wilding bliss- 

Good-by to stormy skies ! 



A little hand to lead me forth 

To meadows of the morn — 
Blow, Sir Trouble, the world's a-bubble, 

I shall not hear your horn ! 
A little questioner to stay 

The tumult and the thought, 
That erst would mar the vocal way, 

With golden marvels fraught. 



A little face to look upon, 

A little comrade-child 
To make the turgid heart that aches 

Content and reconciled ; 
A little hour in fields to dwell 

And in the common clod 
See things that spell on hill and dell 

The handiwork of God. 



A LITTLE HAND. 

A little footstep at my side, 

A little throat that sings 
The music of the meadow-brooks, 

The ballad of the springs ; 
A little heart to set me free 

From worry and from care, 
Along the pathway of the bee, 

The lanes of summer air. 



A little cheek that shames the rose, 

A little faith and trust — 
Good-bye to avenues of toil ! 

Good-bye to steam and dust ! 
The world is ringing with the song 

Of wonder where we go, 
And we are children that belong 

To wonder-land, you know ! 



To wonder-land and summer-land, 

And every land that lies 
Under the sweetness of the dew, 

The zephyr of the skies. 
O little babe, O little life, 

Within the hill's we'll hide, 
Until there is not any strife 

Around the whole world wide ! 



Until the little shadows fall, 

The glowworms flash and shine, 

And thou canst lay thy little head 
Upon this breast of mine, 



86 A LITTLE HAND. 

To travel farther than we know 
In worlds of childhood dream, 

Where only for the little child 
The lights of wonder gleam. 



A little hand within my hand, 

Down to the greenwood way — 
The wounds of worry and of strife, 

They shall be healed today ! 
Good-bye to trouble, the world's a-bubble, 

Good-bye to stormy weather ! 
Hand in hand to the sunshine land, 

My child and I together ! 



The; Spirit Of Dream. 

A dream is like a ghost that walks 

In lands of lost delight ; 
We lean to it across the bars 

Of velvet- footed night. 
With pleading hands held out to it, 

We follow its dim feet 
Into the valleys of the bloom 

Where youth and gladness meet. 

The little pathways of the hill, 

The ladders to the sky, 
With golden rungs to tread upon, 

Up these it passes by ; 
And when we lean and when we call, 

And when we feel it near, 
I^o, in the little window peeps 

The sun, and morn is here ! 



The; Rainbarrel Ska. 



A wonderful sea is the rainbarrel sea, 
Where a barefooted lad in the lilt of his glee 
Sailed ships of wonder on journeys of gold — 
A pirate, a warrior, a privateer bold — 
Around the wild water and over the main, 
Under the spout where the eaves drip rain — 
Nelson and Farragut mingled with joy- 
In the dream and delight of a barefooted boy ! 



A beautiful sea is the rainbarrel sea, 

Under the shade of the vine and the tree, 

Safe from the thunder and shock of the storm, 

Rimmed with the ripples of winds blowing warm 

O'er gardens of lilac and clusters of rose 

To the cheeks of a lad who lightheartedly goes 

From fancy to fancy along the sweet way 

That marks with child-venture the rose-time of play! 



A marvelous sea is the rainbarrel sea — 
How happy beside it a dream-lad could be, 
With ships made of shingles, or carved out of pine, 
With sails mother made with a patience divine; 
With rudders that swung to and fro on a pin, 
And, oh, such huge cargoes of plunder within, 
And stories to tell of swift gales on the main 
Where the little ships battled with billows of rain ! 

87 



THE RAINBARREL SEA. 

I dream of that ocean of wonder today, 

And the barefooted lad in his dreamland of play ; 

I long for the ships and the old-timey place, 

With its old-fashioned gardens, its old-fashioned grace, 

The gentle old neighbors, the lilacs so tall, 

The sunflowers down by the gate, and the wall 

Where the purple wistaria climbed in the bloom 

To rain over all the sweet world in perfume ! 

A wonderful sea was the rainbarrel sea 

In that land of the barefooted boyhood of glee — 

The land of the roses and lilies of youth, 

Where life walked in fragrance of faith and of truth ! 

I dream of it often and long to be there, 

But I know that the garden has vanished in air, 

The roses are withered, and never again 

Will the little ships sail on the oceans of rain ! 



Laugh It Away. 

Laugh it away in the morning light, 

Laugh it away in the dreams of night ; 

Laugh it away in the ringing way 

Of golden duty and toiling day ! 

Laugh it away — the care that sears 

With ache of heart and the salt of tears ! 

Laugh it away, and weep no more 

When lips of love in the little door 

Lean to welcome you out of the day 

Where all your troubles went laughing away ! 



Back Thkrk. 



Back there in the other years, in the drift of their dream 
and song, 

An echo is ringing for us as we move in the murmuring 
throng ; 

It carries us out of our cares, and it soothes like a touch 
that we knew 

When the tenderness of a mother's love enfolded us, gen- 
tle and true ! 



Back there in the other years, in the gleam of the golden 

morn, 
When fancy followed with dancing feet the lure of the 

fairy horn ; 
Back there in the golden days an echo is ringing yet 
Of the laughter brimming the lips of hope — a music we 

can't forget ! 



Back there in the other years, in the sweet, old-fashioned 
time 

Of childheart play and the lightheart way of the wonder- 
ful nursery rhyme ; 

Back there in the dream we drift, and over and over 
again 

Our hearts are singing the olden song and humming the 
old refrain ! 

89 



90 BACK THERE. 

Back there in the other years, the homestead under the 

hill, 
The beautiful valleys of song and bloom, the click of the 

clattering mill ; 
To the tune and the throb and throe, in the same old 

beautiful way 
We lift our heads to its golden thought wherever we are 

today ! 



Back there in the other years, the meadows of bloom and 

bird, 
The little brooks where the ripples laved the legs of the 

lowing herd ! 
The old barn fragrant with hay, and the leaping upon 

the mow — 
Ah, back from the other years there drifts a vision of all 

of it now ! 



Back there in the other years, the quiet and innocent 
life, 

An echo is ringing for us, as we move in the surging 
strife ! 

And it cheers and strengthens and helps and holds every- 
one of us true 

To the tender touch of the mother-love, back there in the 
years we knew ! 



IylTTLE IyADY MAKE BELIEVE. 

No silver shoon upon her feet, no crown upon her head, 
But like a princess through the land she moves with 

haughty tread ; 
A thousand castles at her will rise from the open air, 
A thousand knights ride by on steeds, long-maned, with 

flossy hair ; 
A thousand lances gleam in rest, or in the tourney shine 
As down the lists, with visors up, the courtiers ride in line. 

No bodice of the filigree of gold is round her waist, 

But just a gingham apron made with plain and simple 

taste, 
Yet at her instant wish fair robes of ermine round her 

fall, • 
And at her slightest nod of head and at her beck and call, 
The L,adies of the Chamber come with robes of silk and 

lace 
To deck her in the glory-garb that fits a I^ady's grace. 

No footman follows in her train, as in her little cart, 
With brother pulling at the tongue, across the lawn they 

dart ; 
But in a flash of magic thought, her palfrey springs to 

light, 
High-mettled and caparisoned with harness gleaming 

bright ; 
On rolls her coach from yonder clouds, with lackeys 

bending low, 
As off beyond the starry road of Make Believe they go. 



92 LITTLE LADY MAKE BELIEVE. 

The sawdust doll with broken head, the coach without a 

wheel ; 
The little dishes cracked and worn — lo, in her dauntless 

zeal 
The doll becomes a lovely queen, the wheelless coach a 

throne, 
The little splintered dishes turn to golden plate of tone ; 
The china dollies, little things togged out in calico, 
Are children of the mother queen, engarbed in purple 

glow. 

Such meals are served beneath the trees, such dainties 

deck the board — 
Arabia sends her choicest brews, and there a swarming 

horde 
Of servants pass with silver trays of repousse that seem 
O'erflowing with the flowers and fruits that bloom in 

land-o' -dream ; 
From little broken cups she drinks, as from a chalice 

bright 
A queen might drink in that dear land of fancy's lost 

delight. 

Out of the rough, sweet, simple things love brings into 

her life 
Such gifts as humble hearts can spare from need amid 

the strife, 
She, who is sweeter than all sweet of wealth or pride or 

gold, 
Weaves into wonders what her eyes in dreamland hours 

behold. 
Ah, L,ittle Lady Make Believe, God's heart to you at play, 
There with your shattered toys content in childhood's 

happy day ! 



The Bachelor's Christmas- 



The silent room, a pipe, a book, 

An easy chair beside the hearth ; 
The lonely comfort of his nook, 

With a mere fantasy of mirth. 
Then the soft mist of shadowy sleep, 

The nodding head, the flickering gleam ; 
And, lo ! the little shadows creep 

From out the Christmas of his dream ! 



A tender face leans to his own, 

A golden head is on his breast ; 
The lonely, hateful den has flown, 

And he is happy with the rest. 
Poured round him like a golden veil, 

The roses of the heart of home, 
And little lips whose songs prevail, 

As soft, as sweet, as wave and foam. 



Wrought in the marvel of his mood, 

The glowing tree, with gaud and bell ; 
The odorous pine, from forest hewed, 

Bringing its breath of woodland spell. 
The pattering feet, the lips of glee. 

The chatter of a golden tongue ; 
The little figure on his knee, 

The miracle of being young. 



THE BACHELOR'S CHRISTMAS. 

1,0 wer the nodding head leans down, 

Deeper the slumber that he knows ; 
They bring him holly for a crown, 

The dear eyes shine, the dear face glows. 
He clasps the little shadow there 

Unto the beating of his breast ; 
Touches the aureole of her hair, 

And feels his own rough face caressed. 



To him strange words of baby speech 

Creep in a softly uttered lay ; 
He follows where her ventures reach 

Unto strange realms of childhood play. 
The shadow that beside him stands 

Moves with the rapture of his pride ; 
He takes her two, soft, mother hands, 

He calls her o'er and o'er his bride. 



Ah, rouse him not ! I^one soul, dream on ! 

Inured from your melancholy thought, 
Live, till the last faint shade has gone, 

Within the marvel dream has wrought ! 
Within the glow of her fair face — 

The wife that you may never see ! 
Beneath that gleam of childhood grace — 

The baby that can never be ! 



The Dreamy Song. 

Now, all together, my little ones, sing 
The dreamy song, with its rhythmic swing ! 
All together, and one by one, 
Here where the shadows of sunset run, 
Here where the shadows of sunset creep 
Over the river of childheart sleep: 
Hi-day, ho-day, bumblebee, 
Pussy cat's climbing the catkin tree ! 
Hi-day, ho-day, what do you think, 
Little one's eyelids have lost their wink ! 
Dreams in the cradle and dreams in the cot, 
So many dreams has the Dream Man got ! 

Now, all together, my little ones, kneel 
By cot and crib when the shadows steal ! 
'Now I lay me" and "Father, dear !" 
Yes, the Father of All will hear 
Lisping lullaby, whispered prayer, 
And the dreamy song with its soothing air : 
Hi-day, ho-day, rain or snow, 
Dreams on wings of the sunset go, 
Fluttering down on the heads that rest 
On snowy pillow and tender breast ! 
Hi- day, ho-day, over the hill 
Unto the valley of Ever-So-Still ! 

Curly Head, Dimples and Rosy Cheek, 
Sing me the song of the feet that seek 
The fairy palace, the elfin dell, 
The wonderworld of the childland spell ! 



THE DREAMY SONG. 

Now, all together, while love bends low, 
The cadences of the dream song flow : 
Hi-day, ho-day, robin red 
Has sought his rest in his swinging bed ; 
Baby's mischevious hands are still, 
The plaintive voice of the whippoorwill 
Fills the dusk with a mournful strain — 
Heigho, to the By- Low Land again ! 

One by one do the eyelids fall, 
Out of the shadows the dream songs call, 
Dusky arms of the night enfold 
The rumpled heads, with their locks of gold : 
'Our Father which art on high, 
Oh, guard them ever!" the love-lips sigh : 
Hi-day, ho-day, grasshopper green 
Is the finest fellow I ever have seen ! 
Hi-day, ho-day, baby is sweet 
From top of his head to soles of his feet ! 
Hi-day, ho-day, now they have gone 
Down to the valleys that dream till dawn ! 

Now, all together, my little ones, twine 
Your arms in necklaces tender and fine ! 
Sing the song of the dreamy hour 
When little birds nest in the dreaming bower, 
When dreamy lips of the shadows sing 
The dreamy song with its rhythmic swing : 
Hi-day, ho-da}^, bumblebee, 
Pussy cat's climbing the catkin tree ! 
Hi-day, ho-day, what do you think, 
Little one's eyelids have lost their wink ! 
Dips are singing in slumber sweet, 
And, oh, for the dancing of dreamland feet ! 



The Rkturn op the. Magdalene- 

Babylon is beautiful and Babylon is fair, 

And I have drunk the poison of the red wine flowing there; 

I wear the scarlet garments and I wear the scarlet sin — 

Will mother see the scarlet of my bleeding heart within ? 

Oh, if I knock tomorrow, or if I knock today, 

What shall the echoes answer me who come the weary way? 

Babylon was wonderful to tempt me with its gleam, 
In all the golden glory of a wayward girlhood dream ; 
The wine was like the morning and the gilded streets 

were fine, 
And many praised my nonchalance, and many poured 

the wine — 
But I have worn the garments of the glitter all in vain ; 
It's, oh, the little home again, the little home again ! 

Babylon was magical for tempting of the feet, 

When I who as the roses went, so simple and sp sweet ! 

Babylon is burning and my soul is in the flame — 

Oh, give me back, ye cities, all ye stole of my good name, 

And give me back the roses of the childhood that is dead 

For these, the tinsel roses, that have pricked me till I bled! 

Babylon was marvelous — but how I flee its gate, 
With all the wailing way a wind of echo calling hate ! 
And I am at the little door and I am fain to knock, 
And I am fain to be her child who reared me with her flock ! 
Oh mother, mother, hear my cry! I'm fearful to come in, 
For scarlet of the cloak I wear and scarlet of my sin ! 

97 



98 THE RETURN OP THE MAGDALENE. 

"Babylon has ruined her — 'twas not her fault I know," 
A mother by the humble hearth made moan in accents 

low : 
"The wine upon her lips was false, the tempters bore her 

on 
To taste the gilded ecstacy, to drink the devil's dawn. 
Oh, I have waited long for her, and I shall let her in 
With all her scarlet garments on and all her scarlet sin!" 



O Babylon, dead Babylon, the wanderer at the door 
Grew in that moment beautiful as she had been before ! 
The sin has fallen from her like a shadow in the light, 
A hand of love is round her and her scarlet robe is white — 
For she has knocked and entered, and a little child at rest 
Is dreaming back her childhood on a sweet old mother- 
breast ! 



Beside the Fire- 

A palace rises in the flame, 

A city dances in the air ; 
Ten thousand dreams of beauty frame 

The wonderful procession there. 

A fairy fancy lights the gloom, 
Old battles on strange seas go by ; 

Tall, flickering shadows fill the room, 
And then the driftwood ashes die ! 



The L,ost Mariners. 

Rub- a- dub- dub, three men in a tub, where have they gone 

today 
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, sailing so 

far away ! 
I've watched them so often climb in their frail craft and 

boldly put out o'er the main, 
While under the lamp when the dusk drifted down we 

read the old jingles again. - 

Before the sweet vision of childhood they rose and out of 

the window they blew — 
Oh, when will they ever come back, little heart, to the 

land of the legends we knew ! 
Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub; they must be quite 

gray by this time, 
For even the gray will creep into the heart of people who 

live in a rhyme. 
I'll watch by the window some still summer night, and 

there in the glow of the stars 
Perhaps they'll come sailing across the dreamlight and 

over the silver moonbars ! 

Perhaps they'll come back, and I'll see through the tears, 

and know them and hail them again, 
And laugh at their strange little, frail little craft, as I 

used to laugh merrily then; 
For maybe I'll feel little spirit-of-child creep over me 

just like a gleam; 
And with the lost mariners, won't it be fine to walk once 

again in the dream ! 

Lo OF (*C: 



When the Whippoorwill Sings in the Willow. 



When the whippoorwill sings in the willow, when the 

roses are sweet in the lane, 
Oh, I shall look down through the shadows and dream 

you are with me again ! 
I will tell you once more the old story, with none but 

the shadows to hear, 
And the call of the partridge shall echo, and the lilacs 

lean over us, dear ! 

When the whippoorwill sings in the willow, 
When the roses are sweet in the lane, 

As in days that have vanished, forever, 
We'll walk in the dream once again ! 



When the whippoorwill sings in the willow, when the 

breath of the summer is sweet, 
When the valleys of moonlight are merry with music for 

fairyland feet, 
We will wander again in the whisper of love and the 

charm of its spell ; 
With the old sweet secrets to murmur ; the old, sweet 

story to tell ! 

When the whippoorwill sings in the willow, 
And the earth is a glory of bloom, 

Ah, love will lead on while we follow 
The feet that dance down in the gloom ! 



100 



WHEN THE WHIPPOORWILL SINGS IN THE WILLOW. 101 

When the whippoorwill sings in the willow, Oh, come 

let us walk in the dream ! 
Oh, come let us wander, my dearie, where stars light 

the wave with their gleam !• 
Wake, wake, eerie voice of the forest, weird choir of the 

dew and the dusk, 
While the bloom of the snowy magnolia fills the eye with 

its dream-laden musk ! 

When the whippoorwill sings in the willow, 
When the roses aresweet in the lane, 

As in days that have vanished forever, 
We'll walk in the dream once again ! 



The Butterfly. 

The Hand that made the mountain and the Hand that 

made the plain, 
The Hand that sends the sunshine dancing down the rills 

of rain, 
The Hand that stretched the glory of the sky above our 

heads, 
That filled the earth with blossoms blooming in their rosy 

beds— 
Makes a tiny velvet body, balanced on a silken wing, 
As it soars across the meadow seem a living rose of spring! 



General Joy. 

It isn't the gleam of his saber, it isn't his lace of gold, 
It isn't the uniform that he wears nor the drum-beat round 

him rolled ; 
It isn't these that are glory of glories that round him fall, 
Nor the bold array of his legions gay that march to the 

bugle call. 

It isn't the ardor of battle that beams in his roguish eye, 
It isn't the trappings that rattle as he swings where the 

flags go by ; 
It isn't the fringe on his shoulders that makes him so fair 

and fine 
As he marches forth to the childheart war at the head of 

the little line. 

The cap that he wears is paper, and the saber that gleams 

in the sun 
Is lath with a leather handle ; his gun is a broomstick 

gun. 
But never had Caesar's glory a glory as sweet to see 
As that of the little leader in the wars of the lightheart 

glee. 

Ah, never the great Napoleon, with arms afold on his 

breast, 
Gazed down on his brave battalions with grace so divinely 

blest ! 
For the great old militant monarchs rode deep in the red 

of death, 
But his is the heart of a hero, and as soft as a rose's 

breath. 



GENERAL JOY. 103 

The legions obey his mandate, as he stands on the little 

hill; 
They swarm in the dreamful valleys, they rest in the camps 

by the rill ; 
But the battles are never gory, and the rivers never run 

red, 
And never a field of carnage is strewn with wounded and 

dead. 



For he is a tiny General, who orders his bold brigades 
From valleys of childhood fancy and deeps of the fairy 

glades ; 
They move in a maze of wonder, they rest by the little 

stream , 
And the battles they fight are the battles that a child makes 

up in dream. 



Ah, glory to you, my Captain ! Ah, honor to you, my 

sweet ! 
Where the legions move in fancy to the sound of a soft 

drum-beat; 
Where the brave ranks march in splendor through visions 

of golden joy 
That garnish the fields of magic for the eyes of a little 

boy ! 



The; Ol,d Home; Pi^ace;. 

We traveled back to the old home place, where L,iza and 

Uncle Jake 
Had danced us both upon their knees and patted the 

patty- cake ; 
We found our way through the dusty lane to the old 

house by the brook, 
Stained with the wind and snow and rain, but a tender 

and dreamy nook. 
The hill we had called a mountain was there, but it 

seemed like a gentle rise, 
Though over it bowed with the same sweet care was the 

blue of the bending skies. 
I looked at John and he looked at me and we knew what 

each would say — 
The house and hill and home and men all change and 

pass away, 
But the patient stars and the friendly sun and the birds 

keep on in tune 
As they did on a day in the far- a- way of an unforgotten 

June. ' 

We traveled back to the old home place, we sat on the old 

doorsill, 
And wondered whatever on earth they had done to lower 

that sweet old hill. 
The schoolhouse laughed in the berry patch, it was our 

"college" once, 
And John saw me and I saw John with the cap on labeled 

"dunce." 



THE OLD HOME PLACE. 105 

We found the church with the steeple gray, we gave a 

pull on the bell, 
But of all the sounds we had ever heard, it seemed like 

the strangest knell. 
But the fields were there with their clover bloom and the 

air was soft as then, 
And John's eyes said and mine replied : ' 'Why, the only 

change is men. 
The old roof's gone and the shutters swag and the floors 

are caving fast, 
But the tender sweet of the country home is here as it was 

in the past." 

We traveled back to the old home place, we found the 

haunts we knew, 
The woodland way where the rabbits play and the purple 

violets grew ; 
We wandered down old lover's lane, and a shadow went 

ahead 
With the graceful sway of an elder day in the swing of 

her ghostly tread. 
We came to the tree where our names were carved, a 

heart with an arrow through — 
And, gracious me, but Johh's old face seemed mighty wet 

with dew ! 
The moss had grown o'er the wishing stone and the 

briars were tangled tight, 
But somehow over us silver sweet was the same old 

moony light. 

We traveled back to the old home place, where Liza and 

Uncle Jake 
Had danced us both upon their knees and patted the 

patty-cake. 



106 THE OLD HOME PLACE. 

The haunts we knew in life's fresh dew and the friends 

and the sweetheart girls 
Were gone with the gray and the soft deca}^ of time on 

the golden curls. 
But it seemed to me and it seemed to John, and there we 

both agreed, 
That fly as he may on his ruin-wrought way, old Time 

has not the speed 
To catch the eerie youth of dawn, the blue of the bending 

sky, 
Or the things that last from the long, long past that we 

knew the old place by — 
For as fresh as youth we found, in truth, the bloom of 

the wayside rose 
And the dream and the gleam for us that beam where the 

lane of the lovers goes ! 



Grandmother's Chair. 

Soft and comfy and deep and wide, 

With rockers made for the dreamland ride ; 

Always ready when she comes in 

With her ball of yarn and her knitting pin ; 

Cozy and sweet for a little form 

Where the firelight glows with a welcome warm, 

The hands of loving have placed it there — 

Grandmother's throne is her rocking chair. 

Soft and friendly and full of room, 

When the twilight comes with its tender gloom, 

And a little child stands by her knee 

With ears that list for the fairy glee 



GRANDMOTHER'S CHAIR. 107 

When she takes him up in her arms of rest 
And lays his head on her gentle breast, 
While forth to slumberland they fare 
On the wonder- wings of the. rocking chair. 



Grandmother's chair by the ingle nook 

Is a slumber song and a story book ; 

Is a golden carriage, a ship of snow, 

Whereon to the dreamland deeps we go ; 

A lullaby and a hug and kiss, 

The silvery lilt of the laughter-bliss, 

A little wight of the golden gleam, 

And the fond farewell for the fireside dream. 



All day long when the world's a-whirl 

Grandmother dreams she was once a girl ; 

All day long through her thin, soft lips 

Her tale of the old-time fashions trips ; 

All da)^ long in her heart of gray 

She feels the touch of the Other Day — 

The twilight falls so softly there, 

When grandmother naps in her rocking chair. 



Soft and comfy and deep and wide 
Is grandmother's chair for the dreamland ride ; 
Her eyes are dim and her hair is snow 
And she lives all day in the Dong Ago ; 
But, oh, how much it would sadden me, 
And, oh, how diff'rent the room would be 
Some day to find she was not there — 
Only a shade and an empty chair ! 



The Unseen Battles. 



Did you think that the bravest of battles, 

The battles of glory, are those 
Men fight when the war-drum rattles 

And down to its duty there goes 
The flower of a race in a phalanx, 

The bloom and the pride of the land, 
That gives up its life for its country 

Where the red ripples down through the sand ? 



Did you think that the bitterest struggles, 

The struggles for triumph, are those 
Men make in the pit or the forum 

For wreath of the lily and rose ? 
Did you think that the bravest of martyrs, 

The kings of the conflict, are they 
Who stand on the star-litten summits 

Where banners wave bright o'er the fray ? 



Ah, then let me tell you: the battles, 

The bitterest that men ever fought, 
The deeds that are deepest with valor 

And courage and martyrdom fraught — 
Ah, they are the unwritten struggles, 

Unnoted in story or art, 
The invisible, care-hidden battles 

Men are fighting deep down in the heart ! 

108 



UNSEEN BATTLES. 

God pity us all in these battles ! 

They live in our bosoms all day, 
With blare of the bugle that rattles 

And drumbeat that calls to the fray. 
To some they are battles of sorrow, 

To some they are battles of pain, 
Some fight with the hope that tomorrow 

Will bring back the beauty again. 



Some fight in the battles of dreaming, 

Some bleed in the battles of song ; 
Some leap to the battles of business, 

And they reel with the crush of the throng. 
Some swing to the battles of hoping ; 

But ever, in lane or in mart, 
The bugles of battle are sounding, 

The conflicts go on in the heart. 



The bravest, the tenderest, truest, 

The strongest, the saddest, the best, 
The battles whose heavens are bluest, 

Are those that are fought in the breast. 
Ah, not the loud battles of glory, 

Nor those that drag down to the fen, 
But the awful, the terrible battles, 

That are fought in the bosoms of men ! 



The Beautiful Blue China Sea. 



Come journey with me o'er the beautiful sea 

Of grandmother's blue Chinaware ! 
We'll visit the queer little islands that be 

So dreamy and drowsy off there ; 
With strange little temples and low bending trees, 

Dream lovers who stand 'neath the yew 
And tell the old story of love to the breeze 

That blows from those islands of blue ! 



This platter came over, no doubt, in the Ark, 

When it sailed with its consort, the Dove. 
It, too, holds the lovers that linger and spark 

On the banks of blue islands of love ! 
On faraway waters of azure and rose 

An odd little craft spreads its sail, 
As it waits there forever until the wind blows 

In a clime where there's never a gale ! 



I wonder what stories this teapot could tell ! 

A pagoda is here on the hill, 
And over it blossoms the dainty bluebell, 

Beside it a bridge spans the rill. 
And see 'neath the willow beside the sweet stream, 

A pair of blue lovers, I vow ! 
Ah, blue China land is a country of dream, 

With lovers perched under each bough ! 



THE BEAUTIFUL BLUE CHINA SEA. ] 

This pitcher, so dainty, so rare and so fine, 

Ah, here is the island again, 
And yonder a temple whose columns incline 

To topple right down on those men ! 
Perhaps it is Capri, or Athens of old, 

The Acropolis crowning its crest, 
Or Rome in the prime of its great days and bold, 

Or maybe the Isles of the Blest ! 

In fancy I linger, in rev'ry I float 

Away o'er the blue China sea, 
Drifting on wings of my fairyland boat 

From island to island in glee. 
Drifting and dreaming and casting a rose 

At the feet of a maid and a swain, 
Who gaze at each other in lasting repose 

Off there in blue China's Love Lane ! 

Ah, grandmother gathered these dishes with pride, 
And kept them with care through the years — 

The plate with the tombstone, and there by the side 
A widow in blue China tears ! 

A yewtree bends over, her crinoline sweeps 
Forever the quaint marble vase — 

A hero, perhaps, or a conquerer, sleeps 
'Neath the mound with a lamb at its base ! 

Come, journey with me o'er the beautiful sea 

Of grandmother's blue Chinaware ! 
I'm sure the old lovers are under the tree, 

I'm sure the sweet islands are there ! 
The temples may topple ; they never can fall; 

The lips of the sweethearts ne'er fade; 
And ever that widow must wear her blue pall 

And weep 'neath the willowtree's shade ! 



The Lost Brigades. 



Twenty golden regiments, 

Flashing in the sun, 
Bach a golden year of life 

When their march begun ; 
Duty was their General, 

Soldiers of the line — 
Counting up my loss today, 

Not a one is mine ! 



First, Adventure led them forth 

Far as Youth astray ; 
Next a maid inveigled them 

Down the woodbine way ; 
Then the roar of battle came, 

With its frightful din, 
And the world around them rolled 

All its hosts of sin. 



Duty, their commander firm, 

Held them from defeat ; 
On- they went to warfare grim, 

Weary grew their feet ; 
Once they brought me honors rare, 

Twice they brought me fame, 
But the siege was terrible, 

Hot the battle flame. 

112 



THE LOST BRIGADES. 

Five of them were captives made 

On the way to gain 
Love's eternal ornaments, 

Life's eternal pain; 
Five pursued the vision fair 

Of the hopes that drew 
All their brave and bonny hearts 

On to Waterloo. 



Ten of them were left to me, 

Soldiers of the line ; 
Faithful, fond and tender-true 

Regiments of mine ; 
One by one they failed and fell, 

Worn, but fighting still— 
So, farewell, my hero years 

Only time could kill ! 



Twenty golden regiments, 
Flashing in the sun, 

Bach a golden year of life 
When their march begun : 

Ah, with all the anguishment ; 
Ah, with all the pain, 

Would that I could have them back- 
Twenty years again ! 



The Years. 



Years are only jewels, flashing row on row, 
L,ike a golden necklace 'round the throat you know ; 
Like a clasp of beauty, where, upon the breast, 
Love has laid the roses to be kist, kist, to rest ! 



Years are only blossoms, gleaming in the sun ; 
Youth leans down with laughter, plucking one by one — 
Four-o'clocks and clover, poppies in the wheat, 
Velvet to be danced on by the lightheart feet ! 



Years are only trinkets — saffron, purple, rose. 
A little, weary woman hugs one as she goes ; 
Tells it memory's secrets, sings it songs love sung 
On the choral mornings when young love was young ! 



Years are only ashes — drifting dust of bloom. 
Two beneath the shadows of the gray perfume — 
Jewels, blossoms, trinkets, ashes, grief and tears, 
Soft arms are the necklace that I love best through the 
years ! 



Maryland. 



The; Ark And Dove;. 

"O Captain, my Captain !" the ruddy lookout cried, 
"God's glory lies before us who seek the golden tide ; 
By old Balboa's spirit and by all seamen brave 
The rose is in the spring-wind and the wind is on the 

wave ; 
I know the wild-grape's odor, and yonder, by my doom, 
I spy a golden river and a land of golden bloom ! ' ' 

"O Captain, my Captain !" the weary helmsman cried, 
"I mind me of the storm-wind that rode the ocean-tide ; 
The Dove put back to Scilly to patch her shattered beam— 
Pray now we near the harbors of the tide of golden dream! 
By Cortez and DeL,eon, 'tis true, praise God, 'tis true, 
The shore is off our quarter and the skies of spring are 
blue!" 

Why, then three hundred hearts beat, and then three 

hundred throats 
Rang out the golden chorus with its waveward echoed 

notes, 
And down the bay-tide rolling, and o'er the ripples' crest 
The Dove o'erheard the echo and a great hope filled its 

breast — 
Then glory to the pinnace, and glory to her mate, 
Twin Argonauts of Freedom on the golden tide of Fate ! 

"O Captain, my Captain! strange joy is on the sea, 
The spirit of the springtime wanders down the rosy lea ; 
The wide-mouth river beckons, the wooded reaches call ; 

117 



118 THE ARK AND THE DOVE. 

Fold sail and drift to harbor while the painted anchors 

fall!" 
The voice was of the shipmates, and the Captain heard 

and laid 
His courses for the islands of the sweet dream God had ■ 

made. 

With bended knee they landed, with cross of rugged 
girth, 

They planted it deep-rooted in the new world's bloom- 
clad earth ; 

They met the wild Algonquin and returned his savage 
grace 

With laughter and with loving and with smile upon the 
face : 
"O Captain, my Captain!" they cried, "upon this strand 

God's glory to our sovereign, and God's grace to Mary's 
land!" 

In springs of softest shadow, in dawns of softest rose, 
Through all the tides that wander where the broad Poto- 
mac flows, 
Two little ships of phantom sail upward unto me 
From out the golden mornings of the springtime of the sea: 
"O Captain, my Captain !" the phantom lookout cries, 
And, ' 'Captain, my Captain! ' ' the rose-sweet wind replies. 



Two little ships of phantom, long baffled but upborne 
By voices calling "freedom" from the new world's rosy 

morn ; 
Bowed knees beside the crossbeam, and hearts with faith 

aflame, 



THE ARK AND THE DOVE. 119 

As they knelt to dream of glory in the land of Mary's 
name : 
"0 Captain, my Captain !" dear Argonauts, ye rest, 
But the flame ye lit for freedom burns today in every 
breast ! 

'O Captain, my Captain!" the rugged lookout cried, 
'God's glory lies before us who seek the golden tide !" 
God's glory was before them, and on the sea was love — 
Sail on, O daring pinnace, with your little consort Dove ! 
The rose is in the spring- wind, the wind is on the wave, ' 
And the world still lays its lilies on the white brows of 
the brave ! 



Onward. 



Onward sang the robins in the blithe, bright spring, 

Onward rang the ripples of the rivers deep in June ; 
Onward sang the mavis in the meadows when the wing 

Of autumn turned to crimson and there hung the har- 
vest moon. 
Onward sang the snowflakes in the glory of their white, 

Onward sings the heart around the year — 
Onward to the glory of the laughter and the light 

From the valleys of the shadow and the tear ! 



The; Old Senate Chamber. 



When Edwin Warfield was Governor, dear, 

They brought the past to this chamber here ; 

Stained and sweet with the old perfume 

Or vanished relics, they filled the room 

With desks and chairs and the old time things 

They had gathered up from the buried springs 

Of yesteryears that were quaint with charm 

Of courtly revel and war's alarm ; 

And so we are sitting as they sat then — 

The brocade dames and the gentlemen ! 



'Twas here the Chief of the Nation stood, 
In his lofty spirit and somber mood, 
With sword unbuckled and trembling hand, 
To tender the seal of his great command. 
Rapt and tragic and touched with tears, 
That golden epoch of deathless years 
Shines in shadows that flutter by, 
And hearts still tremble and lips still sigh 
To see that figure of dauntless grace, 
And the high, sweet calm of his hero face ! 



The L,ady Washington sat that day 
Here where the shadows around us play ; 
And the Governor leaned, with his hand on chin, 
And the daughters of Carroll had just come in — 



THE OLD SENATE CHAMBER. 

Ah, silent moment, when hearts were heard 
A-beat, beat, beat at his every word, 
And they in the seats of the gallery wept, 
And the colors gleamed where the sunlight crept, 
As far in the deep, sweet heart of the time 
The love for a soldier had grown sublime ! 

It does not seem 'twas so long ago, 

As we sit and dream where the shadows flow ; 

And I feel they will and I think they must 

Comeback again from the tender dust, 

There on the gallery rail to lean, 

The stately dames in their bombazine, 

And the old poke bonnets, the sweet side- curls, 

And the velvet cheeks of the younger girls ; 

And here on the benches, adrift in dream, 

The men of the days of the old regime ! 

Ah, listen, child, to the speakers now, 
In the velvet breeks, with the courtly bow, 
The powdered wigs; and the ladies there 
With the lavender ribbons upon their hair, 
The quaint old bonnets, the lace and all, 
And the reticule, and the pink crepe shawl ; 
Smiling now at the gentry fine 
Whose silver buckles and garters shine, 
While they half attend to the work of state 
And half to the blue eyes of their fate ! 

It all comes back while we're resting here 
Under the huge old chandelier ; 
The backlog glows in the chimney place, 
And over the Severn the hounds a-chase 



122 THE OLD SENATE CHAMBER. 

Echo their yelp till it rings and calls 

To the shadow hearts in these shadow halls, 

And one by one to their steeds they fly — 

For the lure is sweet when the foxhounds cry, 

And the evening comes, and the bright lights glance 

Where the old Assembly begins its dance ! 



To twine the past with the present, sweet, 
The gallery there, with its straight-back seat ; 
The benches here, and the green baize door, 
Were brought from the dust of the days of yore ; 
And the ghosts came, too, of those other days, 
And the sacred shadows from St. Ann's ways ! 
Ah, see how friendly they come and go 
As we sit and dream where the fancies flow ! 
And, oh, how gentle their touch is, dear, 
As they lean and smile in the chamber here ! 



The Call op the Bugles. 

Play up, play up the bugles, with echoes sweetly borne 
Across the dreamland shadows, across the mists of morn ! 
Play up the call to action, O bugles of the hills, 
The laughing legions answer as they swing toward the 

mills : 
'Good morning, fellow- toilers ; good neighbors, how are 

you ! ' ' 
And robin redbreast cheers them from his boughs of morn- 
ing dew : 
Play up, play up the bugles that call from east and west 
Until the silver trumpets of the evening answer : ' 'Rest ! ' ' 



The Mkn of Old Kent. 

Ta-lara, ta-lara, the hounds hear the horn, 

The bugles of Kentland have challenged the morn, 

The brush of sly Reynard is bobbing a-glee 

O'er gully and bramble, beneath the green tree ! 

Ta-lara, ta-lara, away the pack goes, 

Up, beauties of Kentland, with cheeks of the rose! 

Ta-lara, ta-lara, the bugles are sweet 

That call the gay rally through orchard, o'er wheat ! 

The men of old Kent give one cup to the morn, 

One cup to the stirrup, then off to the horn, 

And wild in the revel, with sweethearts and wives, 

Ta-lara, ta-laia, they ride for their lives ! 

The men of old Kent, with their courtly, fine grace, 
The ruddy, red wine of the wind on their face ; 
The daughters, the daughters, ah, maidens of dream, 
To horse for the daredevil leap o'er the stream ! 
Bramble path, briar hedge, never a fear — 
While youth's in the blood and the bugles ring clear ! 

Ta-lara, sweet Chester ! Afar o'er your tide 
The cries of the chase and the revelry glide. 
Ta-lara, sweet Kentland ! O'er orchard and plain 
The morning rings sweet with the jocund refrain, 
And eyes speak to eyes in a language the horn 
Plays up to the pipes of the rosy-sweet morn ! 



124 THE MEN OP OLD KENT. 

Far ringing, far swinging, the hounds are awajr, 
The woodland's awake with their deep-throated bay ; 
The bark of the quarry, the scent of his trail 
Are over the dawn-breath of meadow and vale ! 
Ta-lara, sweet Kentland ! Across thy fair bounds 
Then home again, home again, follow the hounds ! 

Home again, ladies, and home again, men ! 
Home from the bracken and home from the glen : 
Wild ring the bugles, the brush shall be fair 
To deck Kentish sweethearts, to garland the hair ! 
Wax the oak flooring and rosin the bows, 
And choose ye a maiden — each maid is a rose ! 

Heigh-ho, the fiddles of love's young romance, 
The men of old Kent are a-swing to the dance, 
The quarry is captured, the hounds are at rest, 
The sun over Chester glows gold in the west, 
Hearts beat to music and crimson lips sing, 
And roses are red in the sweet cheeks of spring ! 

Ta-lara, ta-lara, o'er barley and corn 

Ring softly the echoes that woke the red morn ! 

The men of old Kent lift their glasses in air, 

For love of the ladies, for hearts of the fair, 

And loud ring the toasts and sweet is the praise 

Where eyes speak to eyes in the old sweetheart ways ! 

Ta-lara, brave hunters ! Blow, bugles of dream ! 
Rise, sweet of the past, in the fancy's fair gleam ! 
Dance, dames and fair maidens! And men of old Kent 
(With eyes on the red cheeks of revelry bent) , 
There by the lowboy, with glasses in air — 
God' s grace to the sweethearts th t waltz with you there! 



The Grades of - Garrett. 

The Highlands for their heather and Killarney for its 

braes — 
For me the glades of Garrett when the golden buckwheat 

sways, 
When songbirds fill the forests and the sheep upon the 

hills 
Go with little bells that tinkle to the tinkling of the rills: 
The golden glades of Garrett, where the hours are veiled 

in gleam 
And the footsteps of the spirit walk in cloisters of the 

dream ! 

I've climbed the lovely summits, I have seen the blue 

mist lay 
In the green lap of the mountains through the golden 

summer day ; 
I have seen it lift and lighten, I have seen it float and 

swing, 
Like a veil that moves to dancing of the lithe, frail form 

of spring ; 
I've gazed down, wild with wonder, o'er the green 

glades at my feet — 
Oh, the golden glades of Garrett, with the sheep bells 

tinkling sweet ! 

Buckwheat pastures, where the pirates of the blue, bee- 

litten main 
Seek the cargoes of the blossoms in the sunny pollen 

rain ; 

125 



126 THE GLADES OF OLD GARRETT. 

Lordly plateaus, vast expanses, mountains grandly, 

greenly fair, 
And the tonic and the balsam of the fragrant forest air — 
Yes, the golden glades of Garrett are the Highlands' 

counterpart, 
Only sweeter, only bluer in the warm love of our heart ! 



Lowing cattle, fairy meadows, fishing cascades, lost and 

found 
In the shadow and the silence, in the tinkle and the 

sound ; 
White clouds stooping to the hilltops, pineclad peaks 

above the snow ; 
All the rapture, all the wonder, all the charm of it I 

know — 
Know those golden glades of Garrett, where bright 

shuttles, ray by ray, 
Weave the web of wonder-beauty where the green groves 

stretch away ! 



The Highlands for their heather and Killarney for its 
braes — 

For me the glades of Garrett, where the golden buck- 
wheat sways ; 

Where the rovers in the clover on their honeyed wings 
go by 

And you step right off the verges of the green hills to the 
sky; 

The golden glades of Garrett — in my heart of hearts they 
gleam, 

And I hear the sheep bells tinkling to the tinkling of the 
stream ! 



Sunset on the Severn. 

O quiet hour on hill and stream, 
When Severn, like a mirrored dream, 

Reflects the glory 
Of dying daylight's wonder-spell 
Upon each pine-clad peak and dell 

And promontory ! 

The dusk-call of the whippoorwill, 
From quiet cove and dreaming hill, 

Entones its magic, 
And from her briar the thrush replies, 
Outpouring to the evening skies 

Her soul-song, tragic. 

The crimson glory of the west 
"Walks o'er the rippling river's breast 

With feet of wonder. 
The cannon of the navy rings 
Across the purple peace of things 

Its sundown thunder. 

The Sleeping City on the shore 
Dreams in the shadow of its lore 

And sweet romances, 
While shadow-lips of dead days call 
The figures at the Governor's ball 

And old-time dances. 

127 



128 * SUNSET ON THE SEVERN. 

O beauty of the earth and sky, 

Too sweet, too soon the moments fly 

In sunset splendor ! 
O'er stream and hill, o'er cove and dell, 
How beautiful the quiet spell 

Of radiance tender ! 



Too soon on wings of gold the gray 
Dims the last glory of the day 

O'er Severn dying, 
While soft upon the summer breeze 
The balsam of the forest trees 

Comes gently hieing. 



Hark ! from the slumber of the town, 
Iyight as an echo wafted down 

O'er dome and shanty, 
A Middy's far-off whistled score, 
Iyoud laughter, dying in a roar, 

A sailor's chanty ! 



Dusk on the dreaming Severn tide, 
Dusk on the hills along its side ; 

In sweep empiric, 
O river of the sunset rose, 
Under the sunset spell it flows — 

A liquid lyric ! 



The Shadows op Catoctin. 

In the shadows of Catoctin, in the green arms of the hills; 

In the sweet, old, pleasant valleys, where the water turns 
the mills ; 

In the meadows of the clover and the broad leagues of the 
wheat, 

Where the shadows of the mountains and the valley- 
shadows meet ; 

They are laying friends and comrades, loved companions, 
to their rest, 

In the shadows of Catoctin, where they loved to be 
the best ! 

I have loved them, oh, so dearly ! I have missed them, 

oh, so long ! 
I have touched their hands in dreaming, I have kissed 

their lips in song. 
I have wandered many summers in the shadows of the 

hills ; 
I have roamed the blossomed meadows, I have lingered 

by the rills ; 
But the sunbeams, how they sadden, where so many 

loved ones rest, 
In the shadows of Catoctin, where they loved to be 

the best ! 

One by one the leaves are falling, year by year the daises 

creep 
O'er another mound of sorrow where a loved one lies 

in sleep; 

129 



130 THE SHADOWS OP CATOCTIN. 

Youth is passing, life is blending with the gray glow of 

the night, 
And we sometimes feel the blurring of the teardrops 

on our sight ; 
And we sometimes go so lonely where the old friends are 

at rest; 
In the shadows of Catoctin, where they loved to be 

the best ! 

Yesterday they laid another where the old hills o'er him 

lean ; 
How his heart so loved the mountains, how he gloried in 

the scene, 
When upon their summits gazing all God's golden beauty 

lay 
In the valleys of His glory stretching miles and miles away ! 
How he kindled at that beauty, how it warmed and cheered 

his breast, 
In the shadows of Catoctin, where he loved to be the best ! 

In the shadows of Catoctin it shall be so lonesome now, 
For their light shall not be lifted to the love-light of his 

brow, 
And alone in dreams we'll linger where he used to love to be, 
Where their beauty drifted downward from the wings of 

mystery ; 
Now the old hills rise around him in his quiet inn of rest, 
'Neath the shadows of Catoctin, where he loved to be the 

best! 

In the sunshine of the valleys it is beautiful to dream ; 
On the summits of Catoctin glory nutters in the gleam ; 
And wherever I may wander I am sure that I shall see 
The old hills of Catoctin and shall hear them call to me — 
For I love them more than ever for the loved that are at rest 
In the shadows of Catoctin, where they loved to be the best! 



Chester River. 

Give me one sweet hour of glory, ere the dream of sum- 
mer dies, 

Where the broad and noble beauty of the Chester river 
lies, 

Where the rockfish and the taylor wait to take my trailing 
line, 

Where the little towns, green-shuttered, 'neath the bend- 
ing alders shine, 

Where the steamers ply the channel and the thrumble of 
their wheels 

Sends the white foam scurrying shoreward as they show 
their paddle-heels ; 

L,et me land at quiet Queenstown or along the Kentland 
way, 

Where the wonder of the water sweeps in beauty from 
the bay ! 

Iyead me down to Chester river, where I know the tender 
thrill 

Of its broad and noble currents and the charm with which 
they fill 

The heart that loves the beauty of a proud and peerless 
stream, 

Where the interludes of summer fill the soul with tender 
dream, 

Where the eyes behold a vision , mingling with the tide- 
way berth 

The rapt and lonely beauty of the greenly sloping earth, 

131 



132 CHESTER RIVER. 

Where the little ports are sleeping and the clustered 

homesteads lay- 
Underneath the gentle dreaming of the golden summer day! 

I have touched it in its silence, I have braved it in its 

storm, 
I have felt the fragrant balsam of its springtime breezes 

warm ; 
I have faced the shrill nor'wester sweeping downward 

from Swan Point, 
I have learned to feel the spindrift all my tossing locks 

anoint ; 
I have joyed to float 'round islets of the creeks that turn 

the mill, 
The Corsica that flows to lave the feet of Centreville ; 
The winding, gentle streamlets where the white perch 

leap and play, 
And the estuary sweeping 'round the shores of I^ankford 

bay ! 

Give me wonder of the water where the Chester sings to 

me 
Of the dreamful life of summer where the shores of Kent- 
land be, 
Where the orchards foam the June time with a swirl of 

blossom -snow 
And the toilers of the meadow sing hosanna as they go ; 
Where the air with roses sweetens and the lowing cattle 

dream 
'Neath the bending oak and willow with their forelegs in 

the stream ; 
Sprawled upon the scudding pungy with my face up to 

the sun, 
L,ead me out ere summer endeth where the tides of 

Chester run ! 



CHESTER RIVER. 133 

I have felt its touch of magic, I have hearkened to its 

song, 
I have loafed the days upon it all its lovely shores along ; 
I have lazied on its bosom when the night brought out 

the stars, 
And we drifted, careless sailors, over riffles, over bars — 
I^ead me out with old bait bucket ere the golden summer 

dies 
For another day of rapture underneath the Kentland skies, 
With my rod upon the taffrail and my bare feet in the 

stream , 
While my heart, O Chester river, wanders down thy tides 

of dream ! 



Dreamer And Doer. 

The dreamer dreams and the doer does, 

And the dreamer goes his way; 
The doer comes and he plucks the rose 

And he rakes the dreamer's hay. 
But the dreamer's dream will still be here, 

And the dreamer's name shallring — 
While the doer lies long years forgot — 

In the golden songs of spring ! 



Catoctin Vaixeys. 

The clover in the stubble and the cutters in the corn, 
With songs of sweethearts drifting o'er the dewy deeps of 

morn ; 
The cattle in the rye field and the tinkling herd-bell 

there, 
With echoes from the hillsides where Catoctin 's ridges 

flare ; 
The valleys of Catoctin, and the glades that sweep be- 
tween, 
With autumn's golden footsteps on the meadow's fading 
green : 

Ah, dream me vales of beauty, 

And dream me hills of light — 
The sweet Catoctin valleys 

Bring me golden dreams tonight ! 



South Mountain says good-morning, and the Heights of 

Braddock stand 
To part the golden valleys of our western Edenland ; 
The far Potomac flashes where Virginia's shadow treads, 
And wild with rugged beauty rocky foot-hills lift their 

heads ; 
The dear Catoctin valleys and the stubble fields that lie, 
Too sweet to live forever and too sweet to ever die : 
Ah, bring me silver pictures 

In frames of light and gold — 
The sweet Catoctin valleys 

And the green hills round them rolled ! 



CATOCTIN VALLEYS. 135 

The morning mist is wreathing above the quiet lanes ; 
A sister of the sunshine, far away, with sweet refrains, 
Sings up the dawn of duty and the call to men who bow 
Their backs above the handles of the moldboard and the 

plow ; 
The valleys of Catoctin, and the fallow glebe they turn 
Who walk the ways of wonder where the wild rose paints 
the burn : 

Ah, lift the songs of gladness, 
And lilt one song for me — 
The sweet Catoctin valleys, 

With their dream-song drifting free ! 



I knew them in the spring-time, and when the summer 

came ; 
I love to dream of autumn climbing up those hills of 

flame ; 
I yearn to see the homesteads in their sweet sleep of 

delight ; 
The moon of soft September, silver-fingered, walks the 

night, 
And down Catoctin valleys, and by that crystal stream, 
The sisters of the shadows waltz with wine-red lips of 
gleam : 

Ah, banjo, plink your music, 
Swing taut the fiddle bow, 
Where feet of fay and fairy 
In the tender dream-dance go ! 



O savers of the fodder in sweet Catoctin dells, 
Lay by the golden harvest when the autumn weaves its 
spells ! 



136 CATOCTIN VALLEYS. 

The horns, the horns, are calling, the hounds are on the 

trail, 
The ladies in the red coats join the revel in the vale ! 
The valleys of Catoctin, the glades of gold and green, 
The hills the autumn colors with the glory of her sheen : 
Good-morning, oh, good-morning, 

Ye dells, ye dales of light ; 
The sweet Catoctin valleys, 

And the lips that kiss good-night ! 



A Goodly Friend. 



A goodly friend is the fishing pole, a dear old friend of 

mine, 
With its hooks and creel, and its bright-brass tips and 

a hundred feet of line. 
A goodly dream is the fishing dream ; though never a 

fish be caught, 
The heart and soul come home at night so full of the 

good green thought ! 



L,ight Street. 



I like this little corner of the dear old Baltimore, 

Where the streets dip down to dabble in the muddy basin 

shore, 
Where the bay boats dump their cargoes and the 

freighters lift their flues, 
While the tugs go down the river, scurrying by in ones 

and twos. 



Sniff the odor of the oakum and the stale tide's musty 

smell, 
Whiff of produce from Virginia and the lowly oyster 

shell ; 
But above the air unfragrant comes the salt smack of the 

sea, 
With the romance of the vessels, and their dream and 

mystery. 



Bark and brigantine and schooner, tugs with barges in 

their train, 
IvOw hulks from Italian harbors and the far Sicilian main, 

Seven-masters from Penobscot and the slim dark hulls 

that glide 
Round the Indies for bananas from the soft Jamaican 

tide. 

137 



138 LIGHT STREET. 

Fat side-wheelers from the rivers, where the Kastern 
Shore-lines creep ; 

Agile bugeyes, piled with melons till their very gunwales 
sweep 

In the waves of dancing crystal from whose leagues they 
come to speak 

Of the dreamful, dazeful, lazeful Eden-lands of Chesa- 
peake. 



Husky sailors, born for roving; burly negroes, to and fro 

With the iron- wheeled trucks unloading, when the gang- 
plank's swinging low ; 

Strident voices giving orders, crush of drays and roar of 
wheels, 

Where the narrow tide of traffic all day long through 
lyight street reels. 



Shake the dusky shades around it when the starlight 

paints the town, 
And the shadows of the vessels in the long slips fall and 

frown — 
With the gurgle of the basin, and the far-off whistled 

score — 
And I love this little corner of the dear old Baltimore ! 



This Oi/d Sawmiu,. 

A fine old mill was the Vin singer mill, 

And for all I know 'tis a fine mill still ; 

But I don't believe the days are as sweet 

As they were when the mill sang cleet-a-cleet, 

And the saws went zip and the grinders bu-r-r, 

For the I^ad That Was in the Days That Were ! 

A fine old mill, where the wheat grew white 
In the twinkling flash of a single night ; 
A double mill — both flour and saw — 
With logs that rode on the ponderous jaw 
Right into the teeth that ripped and rang, 
And a boy stood by with a heart that sang. 

A fine old mill was the Vinsinger mill ; 

The shade of a lad goes by there still, 

And they let him sit on the carriage where 

The log glides slow to the teeth that glare, 

And it flies back quick when the plank is made, 

And the lad holds tight, though he is only a shade. 

I hear old "Mose" to the oxen call 

When they come from the wood with the huge 

log-haul, 
The chains click-click and the cleatblocks drop 
As the lumbering teams by the mill-door stop ; 
The logs are rolled where the carriage glides, 
And the lad's heart smiles as he rides and rides. 



140 THE OLD SAWMILL. 

The waters whirr and swish and flash 

When the tailgate opes and they plunge and splash 

And leap and swing till far away 

On the river's breast like a dream they lay, 

So soft, so still, while the shadows swing 

Where the alders sough and the catbirds sing. 

The doors stand open wide were run 
The trumpet vines in the midday sun, 
The footpath stretches around the race 
And a lad goes by with a sunburnt face ; 
The playmates come with shout and vim 
In the cooling current to splash and swim. 

A fine old mill was the Vinsinger mill ! 
The saws go zip and the burrs sing still ; 
But I don't believe they sing as sweet 
As they sang to me with their cleet-a-cleet, 
And their dreamy hum and their drowsy buzz 
In the Days That were for the I^ad That Was ! 



Charles Street's Spring Debut. 



A rose in its coat lapel, a cane on its arm a-swing, 
Charles street strolls in the afternoon down through the 

the city of Spring ! 
A rose in its cheek a- bloom, a rose on its lips of red, 
The jaunty grace of an elfin face and the toss of a dainty 

head — 
Oh, spirit of life and lilt, and spirit of dream and song, 
With old St. Paul's on its sentinel hill with a finger upon 

the throng ! 

Spring comes to the dear old street, spring comes to it 

ever so sweet, 
Its little shops where the daintiness of taste and commerce 

meet, 
Its heart of the dream of time, its central and sovereign 

Place, 
With lion and fountain and shrub and tree and the Statue's 

imminent grace ! 
Spring sweeps through its Doric doors, and dances along 

the way— 
A spirit blithe with the breath of song, a dream of the 

golden day ! 

Swing sweet in the afternoon in the sweep of the blithe 

parade — 
One with the click of his walking stick arm in arm with 

a maid ; 

141 



142 CHARLES STREET'S SPRING DEBUT. 

Lips that are glory's own, smiles that are springtime's 

best, 
Violets glorying all the sweet sweep of her stainless 

breast — 
Life and youth and joy, song and hope and cheer, 
And the great loom weaving a city's life roaring and 

rumbling near ! 



Brougham and car and coupe, steeds strung stately and 

high, 
A purple parasol raised to hide a faded cheek from the sky. 
Often amid the throng, kindly o'er all its thrall, 
That lover of life in the old heart's way — His Grace, the 

Cardinal — 
A-swing to the step of men, abroad for his favorite stroll, 
The great gold dome within his sight, and the blue dome 

of the soul ! 



A rose in its coat lapel, a cane on its arm a-swing, 
Charles street strolls in the afternoon down through the 

city of Spring ! 
Down from its sweet, green Place, down where the sea- 
gull calls, 
Under the reign of the violet and the finger of old St. 

Paul's — 
Gay and gallant and smart, a-swing in the blithe parade, 
One with the click of his walking stick, arm in arm with 
a maid ! 



Round Bay. 

Why, the Lord had a brooch for the breast of a stream, 
And He dropped it one day from the wing of His dream — 
A beautiful brooch, with green trees all around it, 
And shores of gold sand that so gracefully bound it, 
And vines and wild blossoms and bramble and briar, 
And birds singing wildly their wild hearts' desire ! 

Down, down through the skies in its glory it fell 
Where the Severn rolled by with its beautiful spell, 
And into its waters this gem from on high — 
Itself a blue water reflecting the sky — 
Dropped gleaming and dreaming and beaming and gay, 
And because, where it. lodged, they have called it Round 
Bay ! 

Why, the I<ord had a crown that was gold on the rim, 
And green back of that as of woods stretching dim, 
And an opaline center that flashed like the stars, 
And rolled and flashed back over inlets and bars, 
With tiny green islands where diamonds should be, 
And a song in its heart like the song of the sea ! 

It must have dropped overboard one day to earth 
From the brow of a beautiful spirit of worth : 
The Severn below it, the hills on each side, 
So sweet the soft slumber and sweep of the tide, 
That the crown in its radiance fell there to stay, 
And is there at this hour in its wonder— Round Bay ! 

143 



144 ROUND BAY. 

Why, the I,ord had a rose from a garden of roses, 

Perhaps where the Lady of Dreaming reposes, 

And it had such a charm and a potent, fine power 

That it seemed a whole grove in the realm of one flower. 

He tossed it down carelessly one afternoon, 

And wherever it fell all the world turned to June ! 



And where did it fall but right down in the stream 
Where the Severn sings sweet through loved summers of 

dream ? 
The birds built within it, and green slopes of bliss 
Leaned down and crept on till they felt the wave's kiss ! 
O rose of rare beauty, O crown of sweet ray, 
O brooch for the breast of the Severn — Round Bay ! 



Magothy Meadows. 



Magothy meadows are fair today 

With April phantoms and ghosts of May ; 

Magothy meadows are fine and sweet 

With mists that gather in August heat ; 

Drifting shadows of cloud and tree 

And robins filling the land with glee, 

As over the river the fishers glide 

And the long roll sleeps on the ebbing tide. 



Magothy meadows are deep with bloom 

Of wilding phlox and the warm perfume 

Of fading clover and lily-bell 

And jimson flower, with its honey cell ; 

Drone of bees and the distant note 

Of Bob White clearing his happy throat ; 

Joy and peace of the tangled vine 

And green retreat of the kingly pine. 



Magotlry meadows are touched with gold 

Of legend out of the days of old ; 

Wooded slopes of the river sweep 

To sandy beaches where ripples creep, 

Talking softly and clapping hands 

In white-capped glory along the strands, 

And ever the shadows of song go by 

With lips of song 'neath the summer sky. 

145 



146 MAGOTHY MEADOWS. 

Magothy meadows are calling me 

Where ships go by to the far-off sea, 

And little islands of gold and green 

Sleep in the tideways, soft, serene, 

As slept the islands of antique grace 

When earth was a young love's resting place, 

And Pan by the reeds of the river played 

For only the ears of the nymph and naiad. 



Magothy meadows are stretching far 

As seas of mist in the gleam of star ; 

Fairy ballads are sounding sweet 

As over the cobwebs go the feet 

Of elf and fay in the silvery glance 

Of Queen Mab dancing the moonlight dance ; 

Insects droning and ghosts of bloom 

Drifting down in the phantom gloom. 



Magothy meadows are fair today 
With thoughts of April and dreams of May ; 
Magothy meadows, that call me home 
To shores of ripple and strands of foam, 
To lights and shadows, and bee and bird, 
And love's unuttered and tender word 
That drifts to me where the river flows 
From phantom lips of the vanished rose ! 



Cathedral Street. 



A fine old street is Cathedral street, 
Where the ghosts of the old-time city meet ; 
Where Baltimore of the Other Day 
Steps soft to the lilt of a stately lay ; 
Where dear old customs of pride and grace 
Have left their shadows upon the place, 
And left their smile and their touch of cheer 
That the war-time changed for a sob and tear! 



A fine old street is Cathedral street, 
Where dainty dames of the slippered feet, 
Of the shoulder shawl and the crinoline, 
In mists of the used-to-be are seen ; 
Where coaches come and coaches go 
And the sweet old social spirits flow, 
And the highest, truest, best we had 
Dwelt there in the life so pure and glad ! 



A fine old street is Cathedral street, 
With a spirit over it still and sweet ; 
So like and yet unlike the best 
You see elsewhere — so rich with rest, 
So bound in beauty of mist and haze 
That drift from the summer of other days 
So calm, so undisturbed, it seems 
A highway unto a land of dreams ! 

147 



CATHEDRAL STREET, 

A fine old street is Cathedral street 

From traffic throb to seek retreat ; 

From things that flash and foam and flare, 

One breathes 'mid it another air ; 

One hears beyond the city's roar 

The voices of the Gone Before, 

The grace, the charm, the glow, the flame 

That came before the drum -beat came ! 



A fine old street, a charming place, 
Upon whose lintels one may trace 
The archives of the vine and rose, 
"Where still the honeysuckle grows, 
And o'er the lattice by the wall 
The linnets from the creeper call, 
While regnant in its purple bloom, 
Wistaria wafts its fine perfume ! 



A fine old street of fine old lore, 

Ripe with the pride of Baltimore ; 

So alien to the crush and speed 

Where traffic sweeps and wild hearts bleed ; 

So sovereign in its stately sway, 

With time to wait on yesterday, 

And time to bow, and be polite, 

With curtsy of the dame and knight ! 



The Drum Point Ljght. 



Up the bay and down the bay and back to Baltimore, 
Through the Roads and by the Capes, riding winds that 

roar, 
Steamers of the coast trade, schooners of the stream, 
Drifting from the river rifts of the land of dream ; 
Keen across the frore foam, soft across the spray, 
When the silver summer walks on the blue-winged bay — 
Hard off by Patuxent, like a dream star in the night, 
Dooms the lofty glimmer of the Drum Point light ! 



Weary stands the dredger by the loaded bugeye's wheels, 
As up the western channel from the Tangier beds she steals; 
Mail upon his oilskins of the forged and frozen spume, 
Singing to her chanties as she rattles boom to boom. 
Steady toils the pilot as his steamer churns the way 
Down to ports of Norfolk by the breaking of the day, 
While, warping off Patuxent, oh, the gleam that greets 

the sight 
From the twinkle and the sparkle of the Drum Point light ! 



Burly, black-hulled bunkers, bound up to load with coal ; 

Fruiters from Jamaica, where the tropic earth-tides roll ; 

The cattlemen from L,ondon and their mates from Diver- 
pool — 

The bark, the brig, the pungy — tipsy-topsy little fool ! 

All up and down in bloom time, and in June time, when 
the rose 

149 



150 THE DRUM POINT LIGHT. 

Is sweet in vales of Eden, or the stinging norther blows, 
It's chanties to the comfort and the cheer for hearts grown 

bright 
When o'er the rollers walks to them the gleam of Drum 

Point light ! 



Swing away, ye coasters, to the Gulf or Caribbee ! 
Swing away to Marblehead and Bangor's sleety sea ! 
Swing to ports of Southland, where the wharves are piled 

with snow 
When the blossoms of the cotton through the bursting 

bale-ties blow ! 
Swing away to Richmond, the Roads and to the Capes— 
From barkentines to freighters, seven sizes, twenty shapes, 
And he who holds the tiller when they swing by in the 

night, 
Oh, his heart will wake with singing as he drifts by Drum 

Point light ! 



Up the bay and down the bay and back to Baltimore, 
O ships that pass the ledges of the sandy Calvert shore, 
The pungy and the bugeye from the beds of old Tangier, 
From the Rappahannock waters, from the rivers rippling 

near, 
The spume may drift upon you and the spray may freeze 

you fast, 
The thunder of the storm-wind lay your canvas to the 

mast — 
But cheery as a brother when it looms upon your sight 
Your hearts will greet the glimmer of the Drum Point light! 



Chksapkakk City. 

I can remember the locks, and the boats as they floated 

through 
And up the narrow canal and on where banks of the wild 

bloom grew. 
I can smell the old salt smell of the bay they brought to 

me, 
And the gleam and dream of the far-off stream that 

flowed to the wonder-sea. 
I can remember the bridge and the little hotel by the 

shore, 
And the oystermen and the watermen and the ring of 

their whistled score ! 

How far to the land of hope, how far to the cities of 

dream, 
My thoughts were away in that golden day the length of 

the narrow stream ! 
How often I sat by the tide and followed the distant tow, 
Bar^e by barge, as it drifted on as fast as the tug could 

go; 
Down under the Blueball bridge, and on, and on, and on, 
Till fancy carried me into the life lived under another 

dawn ! 

I can remember the road and the old causeway that 

swept 
Over the hills and down the dales where the berries and 

buttercups slept ! 



152 CHESAPEAKE CITY. 

How often in dreams I walked that path to the county 
town, 

That led, I thought, to the place where Joy rained boun- 
tiful harvests down ! 

And ever upon my ears, and ever within my soul, 

The songs of ships in the lock's wide slips, and the roar 
of the far searoll ! 



I knew my captains and mates, and the tugs were fine to 

hear 
Screeching away upon their course with the towline 

swinging clear. 
I loved the little old town, and the long child-days were 

sweet 
To dream of glory beside the wharves where the shells 

baked white in the heat. 
Ah, barefoot there by the piles, I journeyed from day to day, 
Up and down in the ships of dream to wonderlands far 



away 



I can remember the locks and the waking in dead of 

night 
To look from my little windows and see the streak of a 

red port-light ! 
I can remember the sounds and the sights and the salt 

sea smells, 
And here in my heart the tender touch of its vanished 

glory dwells ! 
For, over the tow path still, and on through the banks of 

bloom, 
Oh, I am a lad in the little town of the locks and the salt 

perfume ! 



The Oyster Fleet. 

Down Pratt street way at break of day, and round by 
Ivight street, too, 

I hail the pungy and the sloop, the bugeye and canoe ; 

From Tangier and the Choptank tide, from sound and 
creek and bay, 

The white wings of the oyster fleet have flown the sea- 
ward way ; 

The holds are full, the decks are piled ; the odors, how 
they float 

Above the dream that haunts the gleam of wing and wind 
and boat ! 

The oyster fleet, the oyster fleet — far down the line of 

masts, 
Of spars and sails and ropes and blocks, the dreamer 

dreaming casts 
His eyes upon the jaunty rigs, the trim and trusty keels. 
As far away through strait and bay his fairy fancy reels— 
From Chester down to Pocomoke, from Severn to the isles 
Of Tangier, with the boats he floats along the golden 

miles ! 

The choppy sea, the cutting wind, the dredges' clink and 

clank, 
The rolling mist no sun has kissed from channel unto 

bank ; 
The horny-handed sons of toil, the salt-meat men of 

might, 

153 



154 THE OYSTER FLEET. 

Who dredge and drag and tongand scrape, and curl away 

at night 
In bunks and holes where bilge-foam rolls and smoke of 

ancient leaf 
Soaks through the dream of sweat and steam, of toil and 

trial and grief ! 



The windlass clamp, the lifting block, the cullers throw- 
ing back 

The undersizes as they stand before the culling rack ; 

The ribald song, the boisterous joke, the chanty of the 
vile, 

The dream of home across the foam, the gleam of home's 
sweet smile ; 

The loaded boat, the anchors up, the white prows turned 
away, 

Once more, once more, for Baltimore the fleet makes up 
the bay ! 



The oyster fleet, the oyster fleet — down Pratt street's 
length I go 

To hear around the pungies' masts the sea winds softly 
blow, 

To watch the rough, seafaring groups, the joyant surge 
and strife, 

The salt-meat men, the salt-meat songs, the tang of salt- 
meat life ; 

And all aboard, and all aboard, from Tangier brought to 
me, 

On folded sail and battered rail, the dream-song of the 
sea ! 



The Bells of Old St. John's. 



In the quiet, green- walled city where the clustered steeples 

stand, 
Where the heart beats with the spirit of the heart of 

Maryland, 
Mingling sweet reverberations with the rippling of the 

stream, 
Ringing westward toward the mountain, ringing down 

the vales of dream — 
Oh, the bells of old St. John's, how from tongue to 

tongue they speak, 
As they sound their solemn music at the sunset of the 

week ! 

In the angelus of summer, in the vesper of the day, 
When the care and toil and heartache of the city sink 

away, 
Far above the voice of Mammon, far above the rumbling 

street, 
Ringing out the old evangels and the old hymns soft and 

sweet, 
In their tender, silver music, in their soft, divine revere, 
The bells of old St. John's are drifting music to my ear ! 



Where they dwell in calm seclusion, spending lives in 

golden deeds, 
Kneel the sisters in the convent as they tell their sacred 

beads, 

155 



156 THE BELLS OF OLD ST. JOHN'S. 

And around them, welling onward, like a tocsin of the 

times — 
Ah, the golden, holy music in the ringing of the chimes, 
In the tintinnabulation throbbing o'er the city there 
When the grave priests chant the vesper and the great 

world bends in prayer ! 



Down the valleys of that Eden of the golden-hearted State, 
O'er the blue and mist-bound ridges of the wardering 

mountain gate ; 
O'er the conflict and the striving, o'er the life of day by 

day, 
Where the people hear the whisper of the dreams that 

call away ; 
Hark the bells of old St. John's, and the sweet old hymns 

they ring, 
As within their cross-crowned steeple in the eventide they 

swing ! 



Old Catoctin hears their message; all across the sunset 

slopes 
Ring the itinerant staccatos and the silver-sounding tropes; 
Through the years their voices, ringing, send their echoes 

where I go, 
L,oud upon the blasts of winter, soft upon the summer 

glow ; 
And the quiet, green-walled city, once again in dreams I 

seek, 
When the sweet bells chime their music at the sunset of 

the week ! 



Endymion In Greenmount. 

Thou sleepest well, Endymion, on this tomb, 
Where Rinehart's spirit, in its cloven husk, 

Waits through the shadows of immortal gloom 
The kiss of light transcendent o'er the dusk, 

As thou, O bronzen effigy of grace, 

The lips of goddess on thy pallid face ! 

Hither the old tradition weaves its spell — 
Youth in its dreaming glory o'er the dust 

Of him whose dreams of sculptured beauty tell 
Tales that outlive while ancient legends rust, 

Stories in marble that the lips of Fame 

Sound on her golden trumpets with his name ! 

Sleep on, cold image ! Though Diana's beam 
Found thee in I,atmos in that elder day, 

Night after night she smiles upon thy dream, 
Nor stoops to lift thee from the crumbling clay 

Where he whose spirit gave thy beauty birth 

Rests in the arms of all -enfolding earth ! 

Far have they sung thy legend, golden boy, 

From I^atmian meadows and the times that knew 

The mirthful heartbeat and the songs of joy 
In fresh, sweet mornings of the antique dew ; 

And here the mold he figured shows thee fair, 

With lithe, soft limbs and ringlet- woven hair ! 



158 ENDYMION IN GREENMOUNT. 

What summer nights have kissed thee and gone by, 
What days of rose have lingered and leaned down, 

Since here beneath the all-beholding sky — 
Deep -cloistered from the traffic of the town — 

They laid thee, sleeping, that his sleep might be 

Calm as thy carved and tender mystery ! 



Ah, Dian knows the vigils that you keep ; 

Yea, in her far serenity, she shields 
Her boy whom once she woke from youthful sleep — 

A bloom of passion in the bloom-sweet fields ! 
But thou art his ; no longer can she make 
Thy young heart tremble and thy frail limbs shake ! 



Youth, in its slumber of undreamt desire ; 

Beauty, as fragile as a spirit grace ; 
He in the plaster caught and held thy fire, 

As though his soul had seen thy living face, 
As though his heart had felt by Ida's stream 
The joy that leaned to kiss thy lips of dream ! 



He sleeps as thou, but Time, his Dian, steals 
To kiss away the memory of his art — 

Beneath whose spell the world of beauty feels 
The immemorial pulsing of the heart 

That genius wakens, and death strives to keep 

Forever tombed in silence and long sleep ! 



In Westminster Churchyard. 

Arnold at L,aleham sleeps in song's repose, 

Wordsworth at Grasmere, where his lake's blue wave 
Kisses the footsteps of the wilding rose 

And mourns forever by the master's grave ; 
Keats 'mid imperial shadows of old Rome, 
By Shelly' s side and Cestius' crumbling dome ! 

Here, in this minster of our homely great, 
Scarcely remembered, but not quite forgot, 

One most divinely fashioned after Fate 
For unremembering of his hapless lot, 

Rests where the multitudes of toil and strife 

Break by his tomb in rifts of daily life ! 

Unquiet spirit, in this central beat 

Of trade and traffic and the mill- wheel's roar, 

Thy lips that sang so memorably sweet, 

Thy wings of song that were so strong to soar, 

Thy heart that hungered for love's lost regime, 

Sleep in the dreamless slumber of no dream ! 

Trade rumbles by, the day at apex goes 
Heedless of dust that is all deathless still 

In song that lives upon the lips of rose 
And in the hearts that at its echo thrill — 

Genius, be patient at the age's slight, 

Thou art the light from which the world draws light ! 



160 IN WESTMINSTER CHURCHYARD. 

Genius, be patient ! Time neglects thy dust, 

Toil and the traffic-spirit of the time 
Go thoughtlessly, but life is not unjust 

And love remembers, with a faith sublime, 
The golden singers who have wandered on 
To join the invisible choiring of the dawn ! 

Here the loud rumbling of the busy day 

May sift its sound as sifts its dust the street ; 

Here the green mounds, with marble tablets gray, 
The rust of dew with rust of traffic meet ; 

But thou art tombed, O master, more than these 

In an undying tomb — thy melodies ! 

Here may est thou sleep, but not thy name, dear Poe ! 

That is a flame that burns beyond the grave ; 
Far as the verges of creation go 

Thy genius leads and lights and stars the wave ; 
Thy song awakes, thy music charms the earth 
And loud-lipped Europe first proclaims thy worth ! 

Yea, rest you here, immortal son of song, 
Whose life knew little of the rest it yearned, 

Whose heart, too proud to murmur of its wrong, 
With music of undying beauty burned ! 

Iyove shall remember, and with faithful trust, 

Wreathe the eternal roses for your dust ! 



Country Life. 



Pan In The; Pasture;. 

Pan in the pasture amid the bees 
Piping the goldenest melodies — 
Voluble youngster, with willow-wood horn, 
Vision and voice of the vocable morn, 
Charming back Helicon out of the gleam 
Of gods that are dust in the daedal dream ! 

Pan in the pasture a- whistling goes, 
Tanned and ragged and bare of toes, 
Iyifting a pipe that the gods ne'er knew 
When time was young and the earth was dew 
And reeds of the river had songs to tell 
Of nymph and naiad and dryad spell ! 

Pan in the pasture, with freckled face, 
Calling the cows with a tuneless grace, 
Child of the bird and bloom and tree, 
Hybla, the honey, and Hylas, the bee- 
Over the meadows in visions dim 
The whole mythology follows him ! 

Pan in the pasture with hat of straw 

Is freedom's spirit and freedom's law, 

And joy's epitome, leading us back 

Over the golden, ineffable track 

Of happy ages when life was truth 

And hearts were fresh with the rose of youth ! 

163 



164 PAN IN THE PASTURE. 

Pan in the pasture with tousled head, 
Sunburnt legs and a childheart wed 
To gentle idols of dream and play- 
In the sweet, clean world of the country day- 
Fly, Olympus, before this god 
Whose eyes see beauty in every clod ! 

Pan half human and Pan half goat, 
With river reeds of the luring note, 
All thy glory is dusk and dim 
Beside the gleam that I see in him 
Who lifts his whistle and wakes the rune 
Of love and youth at the gates of June ! 

Pan in the pasture with hook and line 
Lures me on where the waters shine, 
As half-gods followed the Pan of old 
To slimy marshes and currents cold — 
But I come back with my god to dream 
Of good green days by the shores of gleam ! 

Pan in the pasture amid the bees 

Playing the goldenest melodies, 

Lift thy whistle, O lad, again 

That its note may reach to the hearts of men, 

Till they shall follow and they shall know 

The hyaline glory of long ago ! 



Dream Fishing. 



I do not go to fish for fish ; 

I go to catch the day 
When up the dawn he comes to swish 

The river mists away. 
I do not go because I know 

The fish are sure to bite — 
I go to catch the songs that flow, 

The dreams that greet my sight. 



I do not go to fish for fish, 

I go to fish for news ; 
Along the shore a mile or more 

To visit Mrs. Muse. 
I often find her daughters nine 

Upon the beach at play, 
And then the happiness is mine 

To hear the things they say. 



I do not go to fish for fish, 

I go to be like one 
Who joys to sit a while and smile 

Just lonely with the sun ; 
Just with the chatter of the breeze 

Upon the rippling tide, 
Just with the friendship of the trees 

And of the birds beside. 



166 DREAM FISHING. 

I do not go to fish for fish, 

I have no time for that ; 
I go to stray away a day 

Beneath my wide-brimmed hat ; 
I go to drift, or slow or swift, 

However wills my boat, 
Where something comes to cleanse and lift 

The dust that's in my throat. 



I do not go to fish for fish ; 

I hardly care at all 
If any fish come at my wish, 

Good luck or ill befall ; 
I go to fish with mem'ry bait 

Upon the singing stream, 
And usually it is my fate 

Instead of fish, to dream. 

> 
To dream and drift and swing and float 

To loaf the lonely hours 
Along the shore where glides my boat, 

Where bloom the fragrant flowers ; 
To lunch and smoke and dream again 

The day's long golden span ; 
To paddle home at night and feel 

Just like another man ! 



The Autumn Fields. 

The autumn fields of Maryland, 

How sweet, how calm they lie — 
By hill and stream a path of dream 

That winds unto the sky ! 
The autumn fields of Maryland, 

The meadows lush with bloom, 
The cornland with its ranks of green, 
Its tossing tassel-plume ! 

The harvest bells are ringing, 

The plowman's song is sweet 
Across the fields of Maryland 
All in the stubbled wheat ! 

The autumn fields of Maryland, 
Across them drifts and drones 
The bumble of the drowsy bee, 

The insect monotones ; 
The cows are in the bottom, 

The curlews on the hill, 
The fall-fish leap in silver 

Through the shallows of the rill ! 
Ah, golden autumn meadows 

In Maryland's land of smile, 
With dreams upon the streams of song 
And in the meadow-mile ! 

The autumn fields of Maryland, 
Filled with the wild bloom's hoard, 

The feet of fairies walking 
Down gardens of the I^ord ; 



168 THE AUTUMN FIELDS. 

Far over hill and valley 

The wind-harps sweetly play, 
While insects weave their silver threads 
To snare the feet of day ! 

The mower's song is silent, 

The thrasher's tune is still 
While harvest lifts its voices 
In the burr-song- of the mill ! 

The autumn fields of Maryland — 

At dawn a sheen of dew, 
With phantoms of the crimson sky 

In purple gauze and blue ; 
The tinkling cowbells yonder, 

And orchards fruited red 
With apples of the blush of rose 
And clustered grapes o'erhead! 
The cider presses swinging, 

The amber juices sweet ; 
The yellow pumpkins in the corn 
Piled where the dead vines meet ! 

The autumn fields of Maryland, 

At night a moon of dream, 
With blue autumnal skies and stars 

To shed their radiant gleam ; 
A night song down the valley, 

An echo up the road, 
The jig tune of a fiddle string 
By rustic fingers bowed : 

Yea, fields of dreaming beauty, 

And fields of faded bloom, 
Where shadows of the old times pass 
In ghosts of gray perfume ! 



L,ofting Hay. 

The hot day walks on the feet of dream 

As the clover cures where the daisies gleam ; 

The wide barn doors are open swung, 

And you see where the dust- deep webs are hung 

From rafters under whose rough-hewn span 

The swallow laughs at the skill of man 

With the nest he has built in his humble way 

On the unbarked beam , with its face of gray ! 

Over the bridge and in through the aisle 

The hay team rolls and the lofters smile 

As they wield the fork with an errant skill, 

While the loose hay hangs from the loft-pit's sill. 

Lofting hay on a redhot day 

Is not all fun and is not all play ; 

But ton by ton, to the yeomen's din, 

They fork the summer and haul it in ! 

Days of glory are in each load 

That winds away o'er the meadow road ; 

Nights of beauty are in the grass 

They gather there in its mown-sweet mass ; 

The pitchforks click and the lofters sing 

As to and fro in the barn they swing, 

Timothy, clover — and with it there 

The ripened glory of earth and air ! 

The wagon creaks and the horses strain 
As into the old barn rolls the wain ; 
The flooring bends, but the beams are strong, 
And the lips of the lofters ring with song ; 



LOFTING HAY. 

Shirts are wet with the sweat of toil 

And the hay-dust speckles the arms that moil, 

But ton by ton to the loft they throw 

The scented load as their ballads flow ! 

L,ofting hay on a red-hot day 
Is not all fun, whatever you say ; 
But something carries into its toil 
The spirit of bloom and the laughing soil, 
And the happy spring and the summer's noon, 
And the rose-red beauty of rose-rare June, 
And ambient autumn, whose sweet lips spill 
Their golden honey on hive and hill ! 

Ever the lips of the lofters ring 

With echoing runes of remembered spring ; 

Ever the scent of the hay exhales 

The bloom-breathed beauty of violet vales; 

Ever the spirits within the grass 

In phantom shapes through the meadows pass, 

And under the orchards a white-robed crew 

Of bloom-ghosts dance on the floors of dew ! 



The old barn doors are standing wide 
As the loaded wagon is rolled inside ; 
The hot day drones where the rivers rest 
With scarcely a ripple upon their breast. 
Ye-ho, ye-ho — and the lofters swing 
Their pitchforks loaded with ripened spring, 
Till loft and alley and bin are piled 
With the dead, dry bloom that the summer 
smiled ! 



Saving Fodder. 



Sweet ho ! the harvest time is here. 
Sweet ho ! the corn is in the ear. 
Green-ranked across the rustling field 
The brown blades to the puller yield, 
The tops surrender to his knife, 
The catbird trills his strident fife, 
The Jim Crow caws his raucous song 
As down the rows they march along. 
All day, all day, with echo sweet, 

They pull and tie the crackling blades. 
All day, all day, with plodding feet 

They toil amid the harvest glades. 



Rank after rank, row after row, 
The savers of the fodder go, 
Bending with rhythmic lope and lean 
Adown the serried ranks of green ; 
They pull and tie and lift and lay 
The bundled provender away, 
Singing the old Virginia airs 
While summer's dying ember glares. 

All day, all day, they pull and tie ; 
All day the tops they cut and pile ; 

All day the ghosts of autumn fly 
With red lips bursting into smile. 



Greenwood Street. 

Greenwood street is beautiful ! Hipatica is there, 
And all the violet fragrances are soft upon the air ; 
With miracles of blossom the paths are ankle deep, 
And over all the little leaves the silv'ry insects creep ; 
Good morning, oh, good morning, sweethearts in Green- 
wood street, 
Where Mistress May is tripping and the rose is 'neath 
her feet ! 

Greenwood street is lovely when the south wind wanders 

through 
And all the sprays are spangled with the gleaming of the 

dew, 
The white clouds journey over azure acres of the sky 
And lips of love invisible to lips of love reply : 

"Good morning, oh, good morning; heart of my heart, 

today 
We'll dance the golden measures and we'll walk the 

primrose way ! ' ' 

Greenwood street is charming when the spirit of the spring 

Is in the very voices of the robins when they sing ! 

O Greenwood street, I love you, and the little paths that 

stray 
To apple-bloomy sweetness in the orchard lands of May : 
"Good morning, oh, good morning, to all whom I may 

meet ! ' ' 
Thus sing the lips of summer in the heart of Green- 
wood street. 



Thk Navy. 



Evening Colors. 

A quiver of light on the halyards, a nutter of blue in the air, 

The voice of the bugle is calling : Hats off to the flag fall- 
ing there ! 

Far over the sweep of the river where cruiser and battle- 
ship glide 

The echoes break broad in their beauty, the ripples swing 
sweet to the tide. 

Hats off to the flags that are falling ! A puff from the 
gun on the shore, 

Deep down from the peaks drop the colors, the cannon 
re-utters its roar ! 

The shadows lie still on the Severn, the guards on' the 

ships are in line, 
How silv'ry the song of the bugle, how tender the hour 

and divine ! 
Attention ! Blow softly, O trumpets ! All clear, with a 

dip and a swing 
The Union Jack falls and the banners drop down through 

the sunset of spring. 
Wide-wafted across the sweet water, far-echoed along the 

blue hills, 
The medley of sunset from silver, sweet lips of the bugle 

out-rills ! 

Ho, seamen, the colors are falling ! Ho, Middies, the 

flags are away ! 
The halyards swing far in the wind of the spring wafting 

its balm o'er the bay ; 

175 



176 EVENING COLORS. 

Across the still city's tall steeples, across the sweet 

river's broad breast 
The crimson and gold of the sunset in ribbons of soft 

beauty rest ; 
The stars in the pale sky of summer, between the gray 

shadows that flow, 
Ivook down from the deeps of their azure on the stars of 

the banner below ! 

Far over the dusk of the Severn, around the green shores 
of the Spa, 

Drifts dreamy the spirit of beauty that wakens life's won- 
der, life's awe; 

The whippoorwill sings from his willow, the Bob White 
in music of gold 

Calls soft through the woodlands of Severn his challenge 
of loverhood bold ; 

With the dip and the swing of the colors in the barracks 
beside the sweet stream, 

Ah, list to "The Star-Spangled Banner" floating far on 
the music of dream ! 

Where you are, happy seaman, swart sailor ; hand to cap 
with salute to the gold 

And the blue and the white and the crimson of the beauti- 
ful flag's starry fold ! 

In soft, tender shadows of evening, the colors, behold 
where they fall 

To the silver sweet notes of the bugle : Eyes front to the 
flag, at the call ! 

Far over the sweep of the Severn, far down the broad 
path of the sun, 

Rings the voice of the navy-yard cannon ! Blow, trum- 
pets ! The sweet day is done ! 



'Taps" At Annapous. 



Across the quiet Severn stream, the river's slumbering 

breast, 
The echoes of the bugles float in silvery songs of rest ; 
Tattoo is past, the lights are out, and in their hammocks 

curled, 
The sailors of the seas forget the conflicts of the world. 
On ship and shore, with magic sway the tender echoes 

creep — 
Oh, sweetest of all dreams to drift upon that song to sleep! 



Commander and cadet alike, ye Middies of the line, 
The spirit of the bugle fills the hour with peace divine ; 
The quiet Severn feels the spell, beyond the Navy's walls 
In undulations of the night the dreamy music falls : 
Swing-ho to rest in hammock bed or by the guns of might, 
And all the voices of the world repeat good-night, good- 
night ! 

Wake, wandering song of silvery spell ; close, weary eye- 
lids, close, 
The soul of music walks the wave upon the feet of rose ! 
Wind in the rigging sob and sigh, or silence drown the note 
Of spray upon the choppy tides that round the harbor float, 
The unremembered noises die in distance soft and still 
When from the bugle's lips the songs of night and dream- 
ing trill ! 

177 



178 "TAPS" AT ANNAPOLIS. 

Play up, play up, ye golden "Taps !" Ashore or on the 
stream, 

Yours is the magic voice that charms the soul with softest 
dream. 

Play up, ye pipes that call to rest, ye bugles that have 
borne 

Our hearts to slumber of the seas till glory walked the 
morn ! 

Play up, ye pipes of perfect peace, while in their ham- 
mocks curled, 

The sailors of the seas forget the conflicts of the world! 



What-ho ! in barracks or afloat, ye children of the sea, 
How have ye heard the call of home, with all its mystery ; 
How have ye dreamt the dream of joy and dream it o'er 

and o'er 
When "Taps" across the Severn drifts to silence on the 

shore ! 
What-ho ! the pipes of drowsiness are sounding o'er the 

stream, 
And o'er the waves the echoes walk upon the feet of dream! 



Across the quiet Severn stream — oh, witchery of the night, 
Sweet be your rest, brave gentlemen, until the morning 

light ! 
Sweet be the dream, sweet be the song of bugles echoing low 
From shore to shore above the tides of dream that drift 

and flow ! 
Afar and near, so silver clear, those dreamland echoes 

creep — 
Oh, sweetest sleep of all to drift upon that song of sleep ! 



The Good-Night Gun. 



In winter night of cold moonlight, in summer's slumber- 
gleam, 

Along the golden shores of song, the Severn's verge of 
dream ; 

Far, far away, o'er hill and bay — St. Michaels hears the 
roar, 

I^ow rumbling in its echoed note along the Eastern Shore: 

The Navy's good -night gun — note the hour and set your 
clock, 

All is still along the Severn and the low waves roll and rock! 



Round the ramparts in the moonlight — cold December, 

rose-red June — 
Soft the golden bugles echo and the waves repeat the tune ; 
Good night, Middies ; good night, sailors ; good night on 

the shore and ships, 
Where the low moon o'er the sand cliffs of the silvery 

Severn dips ! 
Good night, ghosts of all the sleepers— Don't you hear 

the gun, Paul Jones? 
Good night, heroes ; good night, martyrs ! — ah, ye know 

its thunder- tones ! 

In the old Peninsula homesteads and far down the Cal- 
vert side, 

Past the capes that part the currents in the washway of 
the tide, 

179 



180 THE GOOD-NIGHT GUN. 

From St. Michaels on to Kaston — half -past nine, a low, 
dull boom 

O'er the roaring of the billows, through the spindrift and 
the gloom, 

Rolls the dull reverberation, and the old clock in the hall 

With the echo of the cannon rings the half-hour's silvery- 
call ! 



Severn bears it to the waters of the rolling Chesapeake ; 

It is mingled in the echoes that the wintry wind-harps 
shriek ; 

It is borne on balmy currents of the south wind's win- 
nowing wings ; 

Down the bold bluffs of St. Mary's in its rumbling course 
it swings : 

Good night, Middies ; good night shipmates ! — where the 

old sea- warriors tread, 
'Good night' ' , it cries, ' 'ye living ! ' ' and it roars : ' 'Good- 
night, ye dead !" 

In winter night of cold moonlight, in summer's slumber- 
gleam, 

Along the golden shores of song, the Severn's verge of 
dream, 

From parapet and sallyport, through temple and through 
hall, 

The echoes of the good-night gun — the Navy hears them 
call! 

Across the bay, away, away— 'tis time to set the clock ; 

The good-night gun has thundered, and the low waves 
roll and rock ! 



Printed for The Doxey Book Shop Co. 
By The Peters Publishing & Printing Co., Baltimore, Md. 



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